


Please Wake, My Love

by hero_complex_girl



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fanart, M/M, Mind Fuck, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26408158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hero_complex_girl/pseuds/hero_complex_girl
Summary: A monster hunt gone wrong leaves Jaskier lifeless in a grave and Geralt with a piece of his heart missing. Geralt isn’t sure how to function in a world without Jaskier’s sunny smile and sweet voice, but it might be a tad easier to learn if Jaskier would juststopappearing in his dreams already. However, when his dreams start corresponding with reality, Geralt thinks that perhaps the bard is still somehow alive out there. Perhaps Jaskier is connecting with him through some magical lifeline. Perhaps Geralt won’t have to say goodbye, after all.Or perhaps Geralt has finally gone insane.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 47
Kudos: 317
Collections: Witcher Big Bang





	Please Wake, My Love

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE THANKS to drjezdzany (Lorien), the artist for this story. Their art is freaking amazing and beautiful and out of this world and it captured scenes so vividly that I really have no words to describe them. They have SO MUCH MORE art over on their Tumblr (drjezdzanyart) and Instagram (drjezdzany) so please go take a peek at those as well! Tumblr link: https://drjezdzanyart.tumblr.com/ Instagram link: https://www.instagram.com/drjezdzany/?hl=en
> 
> ANOTHER big thanks to plingo_kat for being the beta to this monstrosity. Without them being my second pair of eyes, this would not be half as coherent as it is. Any remaining mistakes are most definitely mine since I read and re-read this until my eyes shriveled up. 
> 
> P.S. Just so you all know, this story is HEAVILY based on a Futurama episode called “The Sting.” If you don’t want this story spoiled for you, do NOT watch the episode. (However, it is my favorite episode of Futurama and I highly recommend watching it some time if you have a free 20 minutes). As always, I thank you kindly for reading <3 
> 
> P.P.S. The title is 1000% a play on the lyrics “I’m weak, my love” because I saw the opportunity and I fucking ran with it.

“Geralt? Geralt, are you even _listening_ to--”

“Jaskier!” Geralt hisses, hair flying as he whips around to face the bard. Jaskier just looks at him with wide, blue eyes. “I’d have found this bloody werewolf by now if you were able to shut your mouth for five damn seconds. Why did I let you come along again?”

Jaskier just grins at him. “ _Becaaause,_ Geralt. We both know your story-telling capabilities are shite. How am I supposed to compose my next epic ballad if you don’t give every glorious detail?” He then shrugs as he sidles up to Geralt’s side, matching the Witcher’s slow pace. “Besides, you know how worried I get when you leave for one of your little _quests._ ”

“You’d be safer back at the Inn,” Geralt grunts in reply.

_I get worried when you come with, little bard,_ he means to say. _There are far too many monsters that can take you from me._

That’s when Geralt hears it; The undeniable sound of twigs snapping beneath heavy feet.

Geralt quickly covers Jaskier’s mouth with a gloved hand, hissing for him to be quiet, and focuses once more on the sound. There it is again, a few hundred feet away to his right. Unfortunately, there is the same sound of breaking twigs to his left.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “There’s two of them.” The Innkeeper hadn’t mentioned anything about _two_ werewolves. He gives Jaskier a sharp look as he draws a sword from its sheath. “Stay out of the way.”

“Yeah, yes, _right_ ,” Jaskier says, nodding his head rapidly. He motions to the edge of the forest, where the ground appears to dip sharply. “I’ll just, you know, stand and observe from behind one of those _lovely_ trees. Yup, safe and sound and out of sight.”

Geralt gives him a fierce look, effectively shutting him up. He watches Jaskier stumble his way toward the ravine, his chest feeling a bit lighter as the bard hides behind a wide tree. He then turns his attention back to the task at hand, feeling the usual course of adrenaline rush through his veins. His focus is entirely on the two beings that are making their way toward him, planning on striking the one that appears from the trees first.

The first werewolf is the one on his left. It emerges with a deafening howl, large fangs glinting in the brutal afternoon sun. Geralt quickly takes in all of its features, noticing that it’s a bit larger than previous werewolves he’s killed, but nothing he can’t handle. Its claws are long and gnarled, fur matted and dirty as if he hadn’t walked in his human skin in a very long time.

Not wasting another moment, Geralt lunges forward, sword at the ready. The werewolf also appears to be ready for a fight, lunging to the side as Geralt swings at him. He lets out a roar as Geralt manages to slash a deep cut into its shoulder. A handful of moments later, the second werewolf pops out from the bushes, just as large as its friend. It immediately swipes at Geralt but the Witcher jerks himself to the side just in time, sharp claws whooshing past his face. He expertly spins away from the pair, grinning viciously.

Werewolf number one tries to swipe at him again, but Geralt is quick and ready, effectively cutting its arm off. The werewolf howls deafeningly, blood spraying out onto the ground, some getting on Geralt’s face. Before Geralt could give it a swift stab through the heart, a blood-curdling scream causes him to jerk his head toward the culprit.

“Geralt!” Jaskier yells, nearly stumbling as he tries his best to run from a _third fucking werewolf._ Where the fuck did that one come from?

Suddenly, the world starts moving in slow motion. The werewolf, fangs at the ready and drool hanging from its mouth, takes one quick swipe at Jaskier. In his haste to get away, Jaskier’s boot catches on a tree root, causing him to trip and fall. Despite his best efforts to catch his balance, Jaskier’s body twists harshly to the left, one last shriek leaving his lips, fingers clawing desperately at grass before he topples over the ledge of the ravine.

“Jaskier!” Geralt roars in horror, eyes wide and mind freezing. He doesn’t know how steep the ravine is, doesn’t know if it’s four feet or four-hundred feet. Why couldn’t the bloody fool have just _listened_ to Geralt for once? Why couldn’t he have stayed safely back in their room at the Inn? Back where he was happy and safe and _alive_?

In that moment, Geralt sees red. His emotions come out in the form of a battle cry, loud and piercing. He slashes at the armless werewolf once again, a twisted satisfaction emerging as he cuts its head clean off. He quickly turns to werewolf number two, palming his silver knife and aiming it at the werewolf’s throat. It tears into the flesh as planned, the werewolf sinking to the ground with a wet gurgle, stunned.

Eye blazing with anger, Geralt turns toward the werewolf that had attacked Jaskier and runs toward it, the werewolf meeting him in the middle. They collide midair, causing Geralt to fall onto his back as the breath is knocked out of him. The werewolf takes the opportunity to swipe at him, his claws meeting the flesh of Geralt’s thigh. He hisses in pain, coaxing himself to roll to the side to avoid another blow. He clamors to his feet, twisting around in time to deflect another swipe, parrying blow after blow in a quick dance.

Alarm bells sound faintly in the back of Geralt’s mind, knowing something is off about the creature. He’s fought many werewolves in his time, but none have been so quick with their reflexes like the one in front of him. They tend to be clumsy when it comes to fighting, their limbs too big and awkward to control. But the one in front of him seems to be the exception, striking fast and quick, slowly pushing Geralt backward toward the other werewolf still gurgling on the ground.

_He’s trying to cage me in_ , Geralt thinks, stunned. He’s always thought werewolves were mindless beings, nothing more than slaves to their own biology when in their beast forms, but this one is showing a stunningly high level of intelligence. To make matters worse, the onslaught of said intelligence is making Geralt tired, arms burning as they strain to deflect each blow.

As a last-ditch effort to remove himself from between the two beings, Geralt quickly tucks and rolls to the right, narrowly missing a large claw to the jugular. He’d have gotten the upper hand at that moment had his boot not caught on a rock, causing him to twist and land on his back, vision going black as the breath is stolen from his lungs. He panics as his vision swims, trying to blink the black static from his eyes. He draws his sword up blindly in front of him as he hears a loud roar, clenching his jaw as he feels the furry body connect with the blade. He grits his teeth against the sheer weight of the werewolf on top of him, vision clearing in time to see a large face mere inches away from his own. Before he can make a move to throw him off, sharp claws pierce through the armor and skin of his left side, causing him to yell in agony.

The searing pain of the wound is enough to weaken him, his bloody grip on the sword slipping, arms starting to give out. He can’t hold the werewolf back much longer. He just hopes it goes straight for his throat instead of taking the time to play with its food.

_Forgive me_ , Geralt thinks. To who he is addressing, he’s not sure. Jaskier? Possibly. He’s the reason the bard fell down a ravine, after all. Vesemir, perhaps? The old man would surely be disappointed in the situation Geralt found himself in.

Geralt stares up at the face of the werewolf, eyes wild and bloodthirsty. If he was going to die, he’d at least do it looking into the eyes of his killer. The werewolf lets out a wet snarl, drawing its arm back to deliver a killing blow, but suddenly topples off of Geralt with an agonized yelp.

Eyes widening, Geralt watches as the werewolf rolls a few feet away, a large rock the size of a child's head rolling with it. He then turns his attention to his right, baffled as he sees Jaskier standing there. The bard looks a bit worse for wear, blue doublet torn in a few places and dirtied with grass and mud. There’s a small cut at his temple, a tiny trail of blood trickling down the side of his face but looks to otherwise be in one piece.

“Geralt!” Jaskier breathes, stumbling over to him and dropping to his knees. “Gods, I thought for sure that rock would crush your face.”

Geralt gives a pained smile, allowing Jaskier to quickly help him up. He knows they don’t have much time before the werewolf gathers its senses once more.

“You’re hurt,” Jaskier whines, hands fluttering uselessly over the bloodied claw marks in Geralt's side. “Geralt, we need to get out of here.”

“I’m fine, Jaskier,” Geralt rumbles. A surge of adrenaline courses through his body, giving him the much-needed encouragement to get back on his feet. He grits his teeth as the wound on his side flares up in pain, but he pushes it to the back of his mind. There are more pressing issues at hand, like the fact that he is standing between a rabid werewolf and a bard who is all too _human._ Just the thought of one delicate hair on Jaskier’s head being harmed by this beast makes Geralt’s blood boil. He had nearly lost him once. He isn't going to let it happen again. Not over his dead body.

“You need to run,” Geralt urged, adjusting his grip on his sword, ignoring the blood and viscera coating the handle. “Please, Jaskier. Just _listen_ for once.”

Jaskier frowns, opening his mouth as if to argue, but an outraged howl makes him jerk. His eyes snap to the werewolf, who has finally shaken himself from his stupor, and gives Geralt a sad nod before turning around and running.

Geralt lets out a small breath of relief, a hard determination taking over his body as he turns and faces the beast. He barely has time to lift his sword before it’s upon him once more, humid breath stinking and spittle hitting his face as it manages to lunge closer than Geralt would like. Geralt gives an outraged cry, ducking out of the way as he slashes at the werewolf’s kneecap. It splits easily under his sword, blood squirting out to show the bone beneath. The beast gives a sharp yelp, eyes blazing with fury as he throws his head back and lets out a long howl. The momentary distraction is enough for Geralt to give its other knee cap the same treatment, feeling a sick sense of victory as more blood sprays out to coat the ground.

_This is it_ , he thinks, a feral grin on his lips as he raises his sword one last time. _You’re done now, beast._

He brings his arm back once more before quickly swiping it forward, going directly for its jugular. He wants more than anything to stab it in the side, in _both_ of its sides, and watch it bleed out on the ground. It would only be fair for the wound it had inflicted upon him. But there was no time for that. The beast needed to be killed immediately, needed its head to be disconnected from its body.

Unfortunately, things never seemed to go Geralt's way.

Right as Geralt’s sword is about to connect with the flesh of the werewolf’s jugular, its clawed hand comes up and stops the weapon, the blade cutting into its flesh as it’s hand curls around it in an inhumane grip. The grin drops from Geralt’s face, the act momentarily stunning him. In all of his years of killing beasts, never had one ever been smart enough to try and stop his weapon like this. Geralt tries to yank the sword back, a feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach as he realizes the werewolf has a steel grip on it.

Despite the wounds to its legs, the werewolf raises itself to its full height, pulling its lips back from its teeth in the facsimile of a deranged smile. A chill rolls down Geralt’s spine, getting the sense that something is horrendously wrong with the whole situation. He only has a moment to think about it before the beast snarls once more and rips the sword right out of Geralt’s hands. Before he even has time to process it, the werewolf’s empty hand swings toward Geralt's face at an alarming speed, connecting with the flesh of Geralt’s cheek. The hit is hard and painful, his head turning harshly upon impact, his body flying through the air before colliding painfully with a tree and making him fall into unconsciousness.

~~~

It’s the noise that wakes him. Or, rather, lack thereof.

The memories rush him all at once; the werewolves, Jaskier, flying through the air…

_Jaskier._

Geralt bolts upward, eyes wide as he looks around, unnerved by the lack of howls and snarling. He sees the two werewolves on the ground that he had killed, but the last one isn’t in his immediate sight. Scrambling to his feet, he holds his breath and listens. He’s momentarily relieved when he manages to pick out Jaskier’s heartbeat, but he’s immediately alarmed when he realizes it’s jackhammering in his chest.

By some stroke of luck, he spies his sword lying dejectedly to his left. He swoops down to grab it, ignoring the still-warm blood that coats it. He then runs, runs faster than he ever thinks he’s run before, and heads in the direction of the wolf and his bard.

It only takes a matter of moments for him to find them, the snarls of the wolf getting louder as he approaches. The scene in front of him makes his heart leap into his throat. Jaskier is on his back, trying desperately to scramble away from the beast. The werewolf looms over him, back to Geralt, slowly raising his arm for a killing blow.

Geralt sees red. He lets out a shout, pushing himself to close the distance between them. Moments later, a century later, he does just that. He raises his sword and effortlessly lets the blade cut through its neck, its head rolling across the forest floor as it’s body slumps over, twitching weakly as its blood drains out onto the grass and dirt beneath it.

Geralt’s chest heaves with exertion, feeling no less than satisfied at the sight. But the feeling of victory is short-lived as he turns his gaze onto Jaskier, his stomach dropping and ice freezing in his veins. His vision narrows as he stumbles over to the bard, trying to wrap his head around what he’s seeing.

Jaskier is still lying on his back, eyes closed as he takes shallow breaths. His bloodied hands are pressed against his stomach, which has been sliced right down the middle. Blood is seeping out at an alarming rate and Geralt nearly loses his lunch as he realizes he can see Jaskier’s organs pulsing beneath it all. The bard coughs weakly, trails of blood spilling from both corners of his lips.

“No,” Geralt whispers in horror, dropping to his knees, hands hovering over the wound. He could fix this, right? Despite the alarming blood loss, it was still possible to fix this situation. He needs a needle and thread, _lots_ of thread. And bandages, but they wouldn't be of any use until he sewed Jaskier shut. It will hurt like a bitch and Jaskier will complain for days on end afterward, but if Geralt makes him down some ale before he sews him back up, then perhaps--

“You’re thinking too hard.”

Geralt is pulled from his thoughts by Jaskier’s weak voice, eyes snapping to his face. The corner of Jaskier’s lips are slightly quirked as if he is somehow amused by Geralt’s turmoil. His skin is ashen, the color slowly draining from him as his blood spills onto the earth.

Geralt opens and closes his mouth for a few moments, looking like a fish out of water. He doesn’t quite know what to say in response, so instead, he settles his large hands over Jaskier’s bloodied ones, keeping the touch light so as not to inflict any more pain.

“I need to get to Roach,” he husks, throat feeling tight. “I need… I need to get a needle--”

“Geralt--”

“--and some _thread_. Fuck, I hope I have enough. I need to stop the bleeding--”

“ _Geralt_ \--”

“--before you pass out from blood loss. I’ll get something for the pain and--”

“ _Geralt_.”

Geralt stops his rambling, watching a tired smile spread its way across Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier threads his slippery fingers between Geralt’s, giving them a weak squeeze.

“It doesn’t hurt.”

The words ring in Geralt’s ears, heart pounding in his chest as he breaks out into a cold sweat.

“N-no?” he whispers, feeling numb as Jaskier gives a small shake of his head.

He doesn’t know what to say in response, Jaskier’s shallow breaths the only noise filling the air between them. This isn’t a good sign. Loss of feeling meant the body was going into shock, which could be fatal.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says gently, _desperately._ “I’ll be right back.” Jaskier is shaking his head no but Geralt ignores him. “I’ll get some supplies and patch you up. You’ll be fine. You have to be _fine_. I… I’ll use some of my potions on you if I have to--”

Jaskier’s weak laughter stops his commentary. Geralt watches as blood bubbles from his lips, the laughter turning into a coughing fit. Geralt immediately places one hand beneath Jaskier’s head to tilt it up and uses the other hand to wipe the blood away from his mouth.

“Darling,” Jaskier wheezes, reaching up to touch Geralt’s face with a shaky hand. “You can’t fix this--”

“I _can_ \--”

“I’d die from blood loss before you even made it back here.” Jaskier then smiles again, his eyes going a little unfocused. “I know what you’re thinking, Geralt. This isn’t your fault. It _isn’t_.”

Geralt opens his mouth to object, but his throat is too tight for sound to come out.

“I knew what I was getting into the moment I met you. You warned me numerous times and I _still_ stuck by your side.”

Geralt tries to clear his throat, sniffling a little as he looks down at Jaskier’s pale face. “That’s because you never listen,” he whispers, not trusting his voice to not betray him.

Jaskier’s body shakes with silent laughter. “He’s got jokes.” His body then stills, a serious look taking over his exhausted face. “If I knew back then that this path would lead me to this exact moment, I’d still have followed you.”

Geralt wants to laugh at how absurd the statement is, how ridiculous it would be to follow someone willingly to your death, but he doesn’t because he _understands_. He’d slaughter his way through the pits of hell if it meant keeping Jaskier safe, would walk to the ends of the earth and bow before all the gods themselves to make sure his bard was safe and alive.

So where had it all gone so wrong?

“I just have one last request,” Jaskier says, softly stroking Geralt’s cheek.

“Anything,” Geralt rasps, furiously blinking a tear from his eye.

“Just hold me.”

So Geralt does. He slips one arm gently under Jaskier’s back and the other beneath his shoulders and pulls him into his lap. The movement is a fatal one, more blood spilling from Jaskier’s wound, and really, how much blood fits inside of a human?

Geralt desperately presses his lips to Jaskier’s, not giving a damn about the blood staining his face, and pours everything he has into it. He pours years of feelings, years of stolen kisses, years of soft touches into it. Years of _love._ And Jaskier, though he’s grown weak in Geralt’s arms, tries to give back as much as he can.

They sit like that for a few moments, Geralt slowly rocking them from side to side as their lips never leave each other. But, eventually, the moment passes. The hand caressing Geralt’s cheek drops to Jaskier’s lap, the red lips so full of song and laughter stop pressing back and, most dreadfully, Geralt listens as Jaskier’s heartbeat grows slower and slower until it eventually stops.

He doesn’t want to do it, but Geralt eventually pulls back a fraction to look at Jaskier’s face. The bard's eyes are closed, pretty lashes fanned out against his deathly-pale cheeks. If it wasn’t for the blood staining his lips and chin, it would look like he was just sleeping.

Geralt stares at his face for a long time, memorizing each and every detail; the small freckles on the bridge of his nose, the rosiness of his lips, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes. He then closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Jaskier’s, lips trembling as he tries to get words past them.

“I’m sorry, little lark,” he whispers. “Please forgive me.”

He then clutches Jaskier’s lifeless body to his chest and lets himself cry.

~~~

Geralt doesn’t know how long he sits there. Seconds? Minutes? Hours? What is time, anyway? It’s all the same when your heart has been taken from you.

_Nighttime,_ he thinks numbly, looking up at the stars in the sky. When had the sun gone down?

A noise from behind him makes Geralt tense up and turn his head. If it was another werewolf, Geralt would gladly lay down his sword and accept his fate.

A familiar nicker, soft and low, makes him relax a fraction.

“Sorry, Roach,” he rasps, throat sore and eyes raw from crying. He knows he needs to get up, knows he needs to report back to the Innkeeper about the dead werewolves, but leaving would make everything too real. He would need to keep going, move on to another town, find more contracts…

_Leave Jaskier behind_ , his brain supplies, another sharp wave of heartache rolling through him like nausea.

He sits there in silence for a few more moments, not wanting to let go. It’s Roach’s nose snuffling at his hair that finally coaxes him into movement, leaning forward and gently laying Jaskier onto the ground. He then gets to his feet and grabs his cloak from where it’s tied to Roach’s saddle. He’s going to wrap Jaskier’s body in it, knowing the bard would never want anyone to see him in such a state. It was only right to respect his wishes, even in death.

He makes quick work of bundling him up in it, trying to regain control of his emotions the whole time. In the end, Jaskier’s head and feet are all that peek out from the material, hiding the majority of the blood and gore. Geralt stands there for a moment, holding the body in his arms, and just breathes. This will most likely be the last time he’ll get to hold Jaskier in his arms. He wants to remember how it feels, wants to memorize the weight of him, the smell of him, just _remember him_. He knows as time goes on that the memories will fade, but he will never _truly_ forget him.

With his emotions somewhat in check, Geralt manages to swing himself up on Roach without letting go of Jaskier’s body. Roach pricks her ears and swivels her neck around as he settles onto her back, softly nosing at Jaskier’s boot. When she’s not met with the bard's laughter or chit-chat, she connects eyes with Geralt and lets out a soft, sad whinny.

“Me too, Roach,” Geralt whispers, coaxing her into a walk as he holds Jaskier tighter to his chest. “Me too.”

~~~

It doesn’t take them long to make it back to the town, the streets glowing with lantern light as a few residents mill about on late-night walks. The Innkeeper is standing outside talking with a young woman, but his eyes go wide as he sees what Geralt is holding.

“By the _gods_ , what happened?” he asks, eyes wide and unblinking.

“The werewolves are dead,” Geralt rumbles, ignoring the question. “You’ll find their bodies in the woods. I… I’d usually bring proof of their death, but…” His gaze falls to Jaskier’s white face, conveying the meaning to the Innkeeper.

“No, that’s not a problem. We can handle the bodies,” the Innkeeper says hastily, stroking his mustache in distress. By now, a dozen other people have stopped to stare at Geralt holding Jaskier’s lifeless body in his arms. Women cover their mouths in horror, some of them shedding tears while men stop and bow their heads in sympathy. It’s an odd feeling, having people feel _sorry_ for him instead of hating him. Then again, Jaskier had performed in the tavern just the night before. These people know what a lively, kind person he is. Jaskier deserved _every_ bit of their respect.

“Witcher, I… I don’t know what to say--”

“ _Please_ ,” Geralt rasps, praying to all the gods above that he wouldn’t start crying in front of the small crowd. “Just, would you show me a nice place to bury him? I… I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him there in the woods.”

“Of course,” the Innkeeper says. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until morning?”

Geralt bites back a bitter laugh. _No,_ he didn’t want to leave Jaskier’s body until morning. The last thing he wanted to associate with Jaskier was the smell of rotting flesh and decaying bone. Before he could growl out an answer, a young blonde woman stepped forward from the crowd.

“H-his name is Jaskier?” she asked, wringing her hands nervously.

Geralt nods in reply.

“W-well, that roughly translates to Buttercup in a few languages,” she stammers, eyes flitting nervously between Geralt’s face and the dirt. “T-there’s a lovely field of buttercups just down the road i-if you’d like to bury him there.”

No, Geralt does not want to bury him there. Geralt does not want to bury him _anywhere_. He wants Jaskier to open his eyes, give him one of those smiles as bright as the sun and tell him it’s all been a horrible joke. But he won’t, of course. He’ll never see Jaskier’s beautiful smile ever again.

“That… would be lovely,” he rasps. Though he’d rather not bury him at all, burying Jaskier in a field of beautiful flowers would be rather fitting.

“All right,” the Innkeeper murmurs, giving the young girl a nod. “Show ‘em where the field is, Estrid. Gentlemen? Grab some lanterns and a few shovels. The lad deserves a proper burial.”

“I don’t need help,” Geralt says. “Just one shovel.”

The Innkeeper opens his mouth but catches himself before he says anything. He eyes Geralt for a moment, looking for _something_ in the Witcher’s face, and nods wearily.

“I understand, Witcher. Just one shovel.”

That said, the small party leads Geralt a ways down the road, eventually turning off onto a path that, going by the lack of a foot trail, has rarely been used. They duck under branches and step over sharp rocks, not one person making a peep. Eventually, the thicket of trees gives way to a large field. True to the girl's word, it’s scattered in nothing but flowers. Under the light of the moon, the flowers look ethereal. Without the sun to light the day, they appear to be white in color, almost glowing under the moon’s beams. But as a few of the men step closer with their lanterns, their true hue is shown, petals a vibrant yellow and seeming to glow with life.

The field in the middle of the trees is rather large, making Geralt wonder how pretty the scenery is when the sun is just rising over the treetops. There is one lone tree in the middle of it all, tall and willowy, swaying in the gentle night breeze. Geralt immediately knows it’s the perfect place to bury Jaskier.

The group of men never say a word, following silently as Geralt makes his way to the tree. Once he finds the perfect spot, he gently lays Jaskier down on the ground, running his fingertips over a cold cheek before straightening back up. A larger man with floppy hair holds out a shovel toward him, giving him an apologetic smile as Geralt takes it.

“Thank you,” Geralt murmurs, scanning the faces of everyone. “It… it means a lot to me.”

With that, he turns around and begins to dig a grave. A handful of the men leave their lanterns on the ground, nestled between handfuls of flower petals. Geralt really doesn’t need the extra light. His Witcher senses allow him to see just fine on his own, but he grunts out a thank you before they all turn and leave, letting him and Jaskier have their moment in peace.

It’s not a task that should take long, but Geralt makes it last. He dreads the moment he has to lower Jaskier’s body into the dirt, so instead he concentrates on the burn of his muscles as he lifts the dirt and shovels it aside.

The moon is high in the sky when he finally decides he’s done. He drops the shovel aside and turns to Jaskier, who is still wrapped safely in Geralt’s cloak. He bends down and picks him up as if he weighs nothing and turns around to face the hole.

“You can keep the cloak,” Geralt whispers. “That way I’ll always be with you.”

Before he loses his nerve or his willpower, he presses one last lingering kiss to Jaskier’s cold forehead and lowers him into the ground. He doesn’t drag his feet on the matter, immediately picking up the shovel and returning the dirt to where it came. He makes sure to not directly look at the bard while he fills the hole, knowing damn well he’ll break down if he sees the body being covered. Instead, he fills it quickly and efficiently, only stopping once the patch of earth is flat once more.

He puts the shovel down and kneels next to the grave, gently resting his hand over the dirt. Despite the deep-seated grief taking hold of his body, he can’t help but give a small smile. Being buried below the canopy of a tree surrounded by a field of flowers seemed a bit overdramatic, but it’s _exactly_ the kind of burial Jaskier would have swooned over.

“I hope this is ok,” Geralt says, swallowing hard. “It was the best I could come up with at the last moment. I just… You told me it wasn’t my fault and I know you fucking _believe_ that. But… I just hope that one day _I_ can forgive myself for letting this happen.”

Geralt knew if Jaskier was still alive, the bard would give him a good whack on the arm and launch into a rant on why Geralt was the world's most selfless man to ever exist. Just the thought makes Geralt give a small, sad chuckle. He then lifts his fingers to his mouth, kisses the tips, and presses them back into the soil. Moments later, he pulls his fingers back and gets to his feet. He stares down at the grave, taking in the upturned earth and the beauty around it, and gives a final nod.

“Until we meet again, little lark.”

And just like that, he turns and walks away, leaving half of his heart behind.

~~~

Geralt is exhausted.

He hasn’t slept in days, despite various attempts. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Jaskier laying in the woods, bloody and lifeless as the werewolf stands over him, flesh and guts hanging from its teeth. And Geralt is _always_ too late, legs moving too slow and arms feeling too heavy, the werewolf _always winning_.

Geralt sighs as he sits up from his bed, bones creaking as he pushes himself to his feet. He silently pads toward the tiny window and shoves it open, hoping that the summer air will somehow help. It doesn’t. The breeze is warm and sticky, humid air clinging to every crevice of the small room.

Tired and frustrated, Geralt walks over to the small dresser, grabbing the pitcher of water sitting there and downs half of it. He pulls the pitcher away as he swallows, freezing as he spots his reflection in the mirror. There are dark circles beneath his eyes and the stubble on his face is starting to form a proper beard.

He looks away, disappointed in himself. What would Jaskier say if he saw Geralt right now? The bard would surely chastise him for not caring for himself, both mentally and physically.

He cringes as his stomach rumbles, the sound long and drawn out. He hasn’t eaten anything since he arrived at the inn and that was a handful of days ago. It was a different inn than the one from _that_ night. He couldn’t bear the thought of returning to _that_ inn and sleeping by himself in _that_ bed, a bed that he and Jaskier had shared only the night before he--

No, he just couldn’t. Though Jaskier’s body was buried there, Geralt couldn’t stay in that town a moment longer. And while the ride to this town may have taken him an entire day and night, at least he didn’t have to smell Jaskier on the pillow and sheets, didn’t have to be constantly reminded of what he lost, what he'd _failed_ to protect. 

Geralt rubs at his eyes, wishing he could make the heavy weight of his eyelids disappear. Witcher’s could go longer than the average person without sleep but going nearly a week straight was pushing it even for him. Now his reactions are slower, thoughts more jumbled. What good is a Witcher who isn’t sharp enough to do his job?

His eyes fall on his satchel as he makes his way back over to the bed. It’s laying in the corner of the room, drooping sadly to the right as it sits there neglected. Geralt suddenly stops, an idea forming in his mind. He briskly walks over to it and picks it up, various bottles clinking against each other as he sifts through them, searching for a specific potion. He bites back a sigh of frustration when he doesn’t find it, but then feels a small sense of relief when he remembers the special flap on the inside. He quickly unties it and fishes out the bottle. It’s larger than the other bottles and black in color, a poison warning to those who handle it.

_Liquid hemlock_ , his mind supplies. It’s a potion Geralt rarely uses since it has fatal results when too much is consumed. But in instances where the mind needs immediate healing and rest, whether it be due to a deadly monster bite or the tragic loss of a loved one, it came in handy.

Geralt throws the satchel back to the ground and sits on the bed, popping the cork off the potion. The bottle is nearly full but only a few swallows will be enough to put him into a deep sleep. He brings it up to his lips and hesitates for a moment, feeling oddly guilty of the fact that he’s resorting to drugging himself to get a decent night of rest. But _gods_ , does he need it. His eyelids have never felt heavier, nor his body weaker. Though the sleep won’t be nearly as restful as a natural one, at least it will be deep and dreamless.

Without giving it another thought, Geralt brings it to his lips and tips it backs, swallowing two mouthfuls before recorking it. He pulls a face at the bitter taste, face scrunching in discomfort as the potion works its way through him. It burns his throat and makes his lungs feel unusually warm, like every breath he drags in is a small fire burning through his airways.

He lays on his back and stares up at the ceiling, blinking sluggishly as the liquid quickly works its magic. His body is relaxed, mind slowing to a soft buzz as he turns his head on the pillow. He spies Jaskier’s brown bag sitting on a chair in the corner, the sleeve of a red doublet hanging out in perfect view. The same red doublet that Geralt had pressed to his face and cried into the night before. He’s much too exhausted to feel sad about it right now. He’ll have another cry in the morning once his eyes don’t feel so dry and crusted.

With Jaskier’s warm smile and kind eyes on his mind, Geralt lets himself finally fall into the black depths of sleep.

~~~

Geralt jerks upright the moment he opens his eyes, finding himself in the middle of a forest. He immediately gets to his feet and reaches for the sword on his back, only to frown when he realizes it’s not there. He looks over his shoulder to try and spot the hilt, frowning deeper when it’s nowhere in his eyesight. He casts a quick glance around him, listening intently for the sound of any approaching steps. Hearing nothing, he reaches for the knife in the pocket of his armor, only for his hand to meet soft material.

“The _fuck_ ,” he whispers to himself, looking down. Sure enough, he’s got on a pair of black trousers, sturdy boots, and his white nightshirt. Not a speck of armor or weaponry in sight.

As he looks around at the trees and bushes, his memories start to trickle back in. The werewolves, the liquid hemlock, _Jaskier_.

Geralt swallows hard, relaxing a fraction. There was no more danger here, no need for weapons or armor. But why _was_ he here? And _how_?

As Geralt turns around and spots a familiar dip in the ground, he understands.

_Jaskier._

Even in an induced coma from drugs, his mind still sought out Jaskier. Though it was a long trek, there was no other explanation for being here other than sleepwalking the entire way. Having his mistakes shoved in his face is what he was desperately trying to avoid, but it seems as if his subconscious wanted nothing more than to torture him with it.

Geralt takes a small step toward the ravine, feeling pain flare in his chest as he remembers the terror on Jaskier’s face as he fell over the ledge. He lets out a bitter laugh as he remembers how powerless he felt, being too far away to grab him, watching it all happen in slow motion. And the then sheer _elation_ he felt when Jaskier appeared out of nowhere with that big, ridiculous rock of his, clothes torn and bloodied but otherwise _alive._

And how much it felt like he was being stabbed in the heart, having all the breath stolen from his lungs as he listened to Jaskier take his final breaths. How cruel was fate to dangle Jaskier’s safety in his face like that only to take it away moments later?

“What’s wrong, Geralt?”

Geralt freezes, heart thudding hard in his chest. Every hair on his body feels like it’s standing on end like he’s somehow electrified. All because of that voice coming from behind him. _Jaskier’s_ voice.

He spins around immediately, tearing his eyes away from the ravine and landing on… _Jaskier._

Geralt blinks in astonishment, gaze drinking in every inch of the bard. His blue outfit is immaculate as always, every brown hair on his head in place. Best of all, his face has _color_ , his cheeks holding a small flush to them as he quirks an amused eyebrow at Geralt.

“Hell _ooooo_ , earth to Geralt,” Jaskier teases, a bright smile on his beautiful lips. He steps closer to Geralt as he talks, the breeze carrying the slightest hint of his scent with it: rose petals and lavender oil. Geralt can only stand there dumbfounded as his lover walks up to him. Jaskier stops a few inches from him, frowns, and places a hand gently on Geralt's cheek. Geralt inhales sharply at the contact, immediately closing his eyes and leaning into it, just _feeling_ the soft, warm hand against his skin.

“Geralt, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jaskier whispers, worry evident in his voice.

Geralt bites back the laugh of hysteria that threatens to bubble up his throat. Instead, he opens his eyes and stares into those beautiful blue ones. He licks his dry lips and replies hoarsely, “I think I _have_.” And then, because he’s a greedy, _greedy_ man, he places his hands on Jaskier’s hips and drags him impossibly closer, pressing their foreheads together as he winds his arms around Jaskier’s slim waist. And _gods_ , the weight of him feels good in his arms. Was this truly real? Was this just a dream?

“You’re dead, Jaskier,” he whispers. “How are you here right now? How did I get here?”

Jaskier lets out a little laugh, making Geralt frown. He pulls back a little and looks at him, only to be met with boyish amusement.

“Did you hit your head, Geralt?” Jaskier then proceeds to turn his head this way and that way, looking for any signs of damage.

And, fuck, _had_ he hit his head? He honestly couldn’t remember. That entire night was one big blur. Or day, rather? Was it still the same day? Fuck, he _really_ must have hit his head.

“I…” Geralt starts, not knowing how to finish the sentence, not really knowing the answer himself. Instead, he just enjoys the feel of Jaskier’s fingers on his chin.

“I’m fine, Geralt,” Jaskier answers with a warm smile. “Better than ever.” He then cups Geralt’s face in both hands, leans forward, and connects their lips together.

Geralt groans, deep and embarrassingly loud, but for once he doesn’t care. He tightens his hold on Jaskier’s waist, not allowing the bard to move from his embrace, and kisses him back as if he were starving and Jaskier was the world's finest feast. Hands give tight squeezes while teeth leave sharp nips, the smell of their arousal growing thick in the air.

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut tightly as he savors the moment, something niggling in the back of his mind.

_How could this be real?_ his mind hisses. _You know what you saw. You saw him die; you buried his body. This is all in your head._

As Geralt swipes his tongue into Jaskier’s sweet mouth he chooses to ignore the voice, no matter how much sense it might make.

Geralt is _tired_. If this was nothing more than a dream, then so be it. It _felt_ real enough. If dreams were like this all the time, he’d just have to take more naps.

Moments later they break apart as their need for air increases. Geralt pulls back enough to look into Jaskier’s blue eyes, crinkled in the corners with happiness.

“I saw you die,” Geralt says, low and serious. His hands never leave the bard's body, desperate for the contact. He nods his head toward a clump of trees on the right. “Right there. There was so much _blood_ , Jaskier. You went limp in my arms. I listened as your heart stopped beating.” Then, in a whisper, he adds, “I _buried_ you.”

Jaskier shakes his head and strokes Geralt’s cheek with the back of his fingers. Geralt wants nothing more than to close his eyes, lean into the touch, and purr like a cat, but Jaskier pulls away, much to his disappointment.

“Nonsense,” Jaskier says, threading their fingers together and gently pulling Geralt into a slow walk beside him. “I’m right here, my darling. Besides,” he trails off as they come to a stop by where the ground dips sharply. He lifts a delicate hand and points to a large tree that appears to have been split down the middle by lightning. “If I were truly dead, I’d never be able to tell you that my lute is sitting down there by that tree.”

Geralt frowns as he looks in the direction of where Jaskier is pointing, thinking of how odd the sentence is. What did the whereabouts of his lute have anything to do with life or death? He doesn’t vocalize the question, but he thinks it all the same.

“What’s it doing down there?”

“It came with me when I fell. I didn’t have time to grab it. I just knew I had to help you.”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts, untangling their fingers. “Wait here. I’ll go grab it for you. Can’t be a bard without a lute.” He goes to make his way down the sharp decline but stops when Jaskier grabs his bicep. The sad look on the bard's face is enough to make him forget about the instrument, wanting more than anything to wipe the look off Jaskier’s face. Someone so happy and full of sunshine didn’t deserve to look so grief-stricken.

Geralt frowns in concern. “Jaskier, what--”

Jaskier then cradles Geralt's face between his hands once more, blue eyes swimming with unshed tears. The sudden change is startling.

“There’s only one thing I want you to do, Geralt,” he murmurs softly.

Geralt grabs desperately at his waist once more, thumbs rubbing comforting circles on the skin. “What is it, love?”

Jaskier sniffles and gives a soft smile, looking deeply into Geralt’s golden eyes. “I want you to wake up.”

Geralt frowns, confused by the statement. He opens his mouth to reply but finds talking to be rather difficult. His jaw feels heavy and his tongue feels like lead in his mouth. He blinks in confusion, trying to convey his question through his eyes, but suddenly his vision starts to blur. With every blink of his eyelids, Jaskier’s face gets a little blurrier and his eyes feel more irritated, almost as if someone has thrown sand in them.

_What’s happening?_ He wants to ask. _What do you_ mean _, Jaskier?_ But his mind feels heavy, too. Slower, thoughts thick like molasses. He’s tired again. He wants nothing more than to _sleep._

So instead of fighting it, instead of blinking awake to cradle Jaskier to his chest, he closes his eyes and gives in to the darkness.

~~~

Geralt jolts awake, heart pounding in his chest. His eyes wildly scan his surroundings, expecting to see a lush forest surrounding him. His brain takes a moment to process the wooden walls of the inn, the first rays of sunlight peeking through the window to announce a new day. Disappointment hits him full force, his heart aching with longing.

The dream had felt so real. _Jaskier_ had felt so real with his smooth skin and soft hair beneath Geralt’s work-hardened hands.

He brings his fingers up to his lips and gently touches them, feeling the ghost of Jaskier’s lips brushing against his, _tasting_ his sweetness on his tongue. For a sleep that was supposed to be dreamless, it was one of the most vivid dreams he’s ever had. So much for the hemlock working.

_You don’t deserve a peaceful sleep_ , his mind hisses.

It’s the truth. He doesn’t argue with it.

Geralt pushes himself up from the bed and sighs as he reaches for his clothing. Though the memory of the dream is still fresh and raw, Geralt knows that he’s been idle long enough. It’s time to move on and find some new contracts. He’s only got so much coin, after all. Payment waits for no one, death or otherwise.

He slowly ties the strings on his trousers and takes extra care buttoning his shirt, not completely ready to leave the inn. It will be the first time in years that he’s traveled without Jaskier. There will be no more idle chatter or happy singing that echoes off the trees, no more clumsy footsteps next to his or secret sugar cubes fed to Roach. It will just be Geralt and Roach and silence.

Geralt sighs as he finishes putting on his armor, throwing his sack of potions over his back before walking over to where Jaskier’s belongings sit. He stares at the small pile for a moment, hesitant to touch it. There’s less clothing in the sack than usual thanks to Geralt’s terrible habit of tearing the clothing off the bard. He was going to buy him some new materials in the next big town, the finest silks that were available, but that is no longer necessary.

Geralt eventually reaches toward the sack, gently tying it shut so none of the remaining clothing falls out. He cradles it against his chest as he makes his way toward the door. Just as he reaches for the doorknob, his body freezes, a part of his dream suddenly rushing back to him.

_Jaskier’s lute._

Geralt looks over his shoulder to where Jaskier’s sack has lived for the past few nights, knowing full well the instrument isn’t there. But that rose another question: where _is_ it?

He hadn’t buried it with Jaskier. In fact, it hadn’t been anywhere in sight when the bard was dying.

He frowns, words from his dream echoing in his ears.

_“If I were truly dead, I’d never be able to tell you that my lute is sitting down there by that tree.”_

_Sitting down there by that tree._

_By that tree…_

Geralt shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his face. It was nothing more than a dream. It doesn’t mean anything.

...Right?

Geralt stands there, conflicted. He’s never been the type to believe in destiny or prophecies or _the meaning of dreams_ , for fuck's sake. But stranger things have proven to be real. So why not the dream too?

“This is madness,” he murmurs to himself as he finally makes his way down the stairs, out the door, and toward the stables.

_But is it?_ His inner voice whispers. _What if it wasn’t_ just _a dream?_

Though he feels insane, he finds himself walking at a quicker pace, ignoring the puzzled looks thrown his way. He greets Roach with a gentle scratch on the nose, feeling guilty for leaving her in the stable longer than she likes. He bribes her with a carrot, instantly soothing her moodiness, before tacking her up and swinging onto her back. The road forks two ways at the end of town, one heading back toward where they came from and one that will carry him further away from Jaskier. He sits there for a moment, the cogs in his brain spinning. He finds himself conflicted once more. He should really turn left, go forward, and find new contracts instead of getting sucked back into the past. A Witcher’s only purpose is to fight and kill monsters, not wallow in their own self-pity and heartbreak.

In the end, Roach decides for him. She turns her head toward the right, ears perked as she pulls on the reins. She stamps her foot and knickers softly, giving Geralt a side-eye, almost as if she _knows_ what he’s thinking. Then again, Roach has always been more perceptive than other creatures. He wouldn’t even be surprised if she understood what was going through Geralt’s mind.

His willpower crumbling, Geralt growls, “Fuck it,” and immediately spurs her into a canter.

Hell, maybe this whole ordeal will prove that Geralt is crazy, but at least he’ll have his answer. Worst case scenario, there is no lute and it truly was just a very vivid dream. Best case scenario, he finds the lute and has one more thing to remember Jaskier by. Not to mention, the thought of Jaskier’s lute ending up in the hands of a random passerby feels all kinds of wrong to Geralt. It wouldn’t be right for someone else’s fingers to pluck the strings, to delicately coax music from the instrument.

_Don’t let anyone take it_ , his inner voice cautioned, sounding mysteriously like Jaskier.

_I won’t_ , he thinks. _I promise._

Just as the sun starts to rise above the trees, drowning both him and Roach in an eerie morning glow, he spurs her into a gallop, hoping to make it back to the forest before nightfall.

~~~

The forest looks innocent under the rays of the setting sun, trees blowing gently in the breeze as birds chirp peacefully overhead. If it wasn’t for the dark-brown stains of werewolf blood coating the dirt and leaves, Geralt would never have thought that anything happened here.

The wind carries the faintest scent of old blood through the air, another reminder of what had taken place here not but a week ago. But Geralt doesn’t let himself reflect on it, choosing instead to hop off Roach and walk briskly toward the ravine. The ground is void of any monster bodies, meaning the villagers must have come back and taken care of them.

Geralt holds his breath as he stops at the edge of the ravine, eyes blinking dumbly as he spots the tree. Though he has never laid eyes on the tree before, it looks like an exact replica of the one from his dream. It's tall, wide, and sure enough, has been split down the middle by lightning. A sense of deja vu hits him, making him almost dizzy with it.

He doesn’t even think twice before stumbling his way down the ledge, boots slipping in mud and hands grasping at roots. Eventually, he reaches the bottom, chest heaving with exertion but grateful to be on solid ground. He ignores his breathlessness and slowly walks forward, tilting his head to the side as he approaches the tree. At first, he doesn’t see anything, the ground in front of the tree full of nothing but dirt and small pebbles, making his chest overflow with the heaviness of disappointment. However, as he slowly veers to the left, he catches a glimpse of oddly shaped wood and faded leather. Wide-eyed, his breath catches in his throat as the lute comes into full view. There are various dead leaves trapped between the neck and the strings and the strap appears to have busted, but it’s otherwise in good shape.

Geralt isn’t even aware of moving until he’s dropping to his knees beside the instrument. His fingers shake as they hover above it, afraid to touch it, afraid it will disappear if he so much as _breathes_ on it. Gathering an armies-worth of courage, he delicately plucks the leaves from the strings until they’re all gone and gathers the instrument into his arms, cradling it against his chest. He closes his eyes and sniffs the wood, the faint scent of Jaskier immediately filling his nose, bringing a pained smile with it. Though the smell tugs on his heartstrings, he ignores it, his mind spinning with too many questions.

_Is this real?_

_How did I know where to find his lute when I never even looked down here?_

_Does this mean my dream was_ more _than a dream?_

_If that’s the case, how was Jaskier able to tell me if he’s dead?_

His mind stutters to a halt at the last thought. Though he still feels a bit insane, Geralt can’t help but think that there’s more to the whole story than it being just a simple dream. After all, no dream of his had ever told him the coordinates of lost items.

_“If I were truly dead, I’d never be able to tell you that my lute is sitting down there by that tree.”_

_Truly dead…_

Truly _dead..._

Jaskier’s words ring in his ears loud and clear, his body tingling with a strange energy.

So, perhaps that was it. Perhaps, in a strange way, Jaskier _wasn’t_ dead.

_You buried him,_ the voice in his head reminisced. _You covered his cold body in dirt. How on earth could he be alive?_

“Physically, yes,” Geralt rumbles to himself, mind spinning. But what about on a spiritual plane? Ghosts and spirits are very much a real thing. Could Jaskier exist in one of those forms? He _has_ to. There is no other sane explanation for him telling Geralt where his lute is hidden. Though most people will shrug it off as a mere coincidence, Geralt will go insane if he doesn’t get some sort of answer. Knowing that the whole situation is bigger than he can ever figure out on his own, he does the only thing he can think of.

He gently sets the lute onto the ground before reaching down the front of his armor. He ignores the wolf medallion and searches for the smaller, more bumpy chain settled alongside it. As his fingers find the small ball of metal, he closes it in his fist and fishes it out, bringing it up to eye-level.

He’s not entirely sure how the xenovox works. Besides the handful of signs he knows, most magic is far beyond his knowledge, but now is not the time to sit and question it. Instead, he brings the small, ornate ball up to his lips and says, “Are you there, Yennefer? I could really use your help.”

~~~

Yennefer looks as beautiful as always, wrapped in a ruby-red dress with lipstick to match, not a hair out of place as she frowns down at the instrument she’s holding in her dainty hands. She’s always been a hard one to read, a wall the size of mountains between her and anyone trying to get close. But Geralt can see the curiosity and puzzlement in her violet-eyed gaze.

“Explain it again,” she says, the fingers of her left hand slowly tracing the shape of the lute.

Geralt sighs rather impatiently but retells the story for the fourth time. He makes sure to give her every single detail, starting with the traumatic werewolf fight and ending with finding the lute down by the split tree. He doesn’t leave out anything, not even the bits about clutching Jaskier’s lifeless body to his chest. She frowns deeper at that bit, a flicker of something softer appearing behind her eyes, but it’s gone again before he can make sense of it.

After what seems like a decade, Yennefer finally looks up from the lute, meeting Geralt’s gaze. His body sags slightly with relief when he doesn’t see any traces of judgment or annoyance or _are you fucking crazy?_ in her eyes. Instead, she wordlessly hands the lute back to Geralt and gives a small sigh.

“Well, I’ve certainly dealt with stranger things,” she murmurs, biting her lip as the look on her face changes. The small quirk of her lips suddenly makes his stomach feel like it’s sinking down to his feet. Now _this_ was a look that he feared; The, _I feel bad for you,_ look. The, _I’m sorry to inform you,_ look. It was not a look Geralt ever wanted to see in his life. _Especially_ not at a time when he’d gotten his hopes up so high.

“Geralt,” she says in a gentle tone.

Geralt clenches his jaw and looks away, not wanting to listen to the pitying tone of her voice.

“I’d usually be able to track him through your memories,” she explains. “It helps in most cases, whether it be to track down a kidnapped child or a runaway dog. But…”

“ _But_ ,” he bites out, stubbornly refusing to meet her gaze.

“But,” she continues. “After sifting through your memories of your last moments together, I just can’t find a tether to him, Geralt. There’s nothing there.”

“Well I _know_ he’s dead,” he growls, finally meeting her gaze as anger and pain burns in his eyes. “But what about spiritually? Does he exist on some other plane that we cannot see?”

She gives him a sad smile and lays a gentle hand on his arm. It takes everything in him to not flinch away.

“I’ve tracked down many spirits in my lifetime. Even they have tethers until they cross over.”

Geralt closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she continues, giving his arm a squeeze. “I know how much you loved him, but he’s gone. I’m afraid nothing can change that.”

“But the lute,” he whispers. “How could I have _possibly_ known its location? None of this makes sense.”

“Well, it’s only normal to want to keep Jaskier’s things close to you. Perhaps you subconsciously remember seeing the lute at one point and this was your brain reminding you where it was.”

Geralt knows deep in his bones that that isn’t the case. He hadn’t even so much as _looked_ over the edge of that ravine when Jaskier fell, let alone have the time to play I Spy with his instrument. He’d been a bit preoccupied with killing things at the time to pay that much attention.

But Geralt doesn’t say this. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Yennefer is one of the only people left that he holds dear to him and he doesn’t want to anger or upset her with his pettiness. Instead, he swallows thickly and nods at her.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he rumbles, throat thick with emotion. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“It wasn’t a waste, Geralt,” she says gently. She steps forward and brushes a light kiss to his cheek. “I’m truly sorry to hear about Jaskier. He was _so_ good for you.” She smiles one last time before turning to her right, bringing her hands up and creating a portal to god knows where. She steps through as the portal vanishes moments later, leaving Geralt alone with nothing but his thoughts and Jaskier’s lute.

Geralt sighs as he looks down at the instrument, running a hand through his hair. He really doesn’t know what to make of the situation now that Yennefer has answered his question. He knows he hasn’t laid eyes on the lute since Jaskier fell. There was no way he would have known its location, tucked behind the split tree and hiding in the grass.

_Are you sure about that?_ His mind teases. _There’s no other explanation. Jaskier’s_ dead _. He can’t tell you anything._

“Shut up,” he hisses, feeling a slight sense of embarrassment when he realizes he’s talking to himself. But the anger falters as quickly as it comes, making him feel uncertain.

Yennefer is good at what she does. She didn't become one of the most powerful mages on earth by bullshitting her knowledge and powers. And if Yennefer says it was just a dream, then maybe it _was_ just a dream after all.

And maybe, just maybe, Geralt is slowly starting to lose his mind.

~~~

Not wanting to deal with the curious looks and questions back in town, Geralt decides to camp there that night. It’s a bit morbid sleeping in the woods where the love of his life bled to death, but when nighttime falls and he can’t see past the glow of a campfire, it feels just like any other forest to Geralt.

Geralt lays on his back and stares up at the stars, listening to the owls hooting in the distance and the swish of Roach’s tail as she nibbles on some grass. Jaskier’s lute is settled on the ground to his left, his eyes straying there every few moments. Now that he knows that his touch won’t make the instrument vanish into thin air, Geralt runs his fingertips gently up and down the wood, plucking a chord every now and then. Every pluck seems to both soothe and reopen a deep wound in his chest, but he doesn’t stop. He’ll let himself indulge in something good just this once.

He sighs up at the twinkling stars, knowing he should have been asleep hours ago. His eyes are heavy and his body is exhausted, but the thought of his dream keeps him awake. He’s given up on understanding the logic of the dream and focuses instead on the way Jaskier felt in his arms and tasted on his lips, the softness of his laughter in the air.

Was this going to be his life now? Reminiscing every night about the love that he had and lost? Would the memories eventually fade? Would he eventually forget what Jaskier looked like?

_I’ll never forget you,_ he promises Jaskier. _Not even when I’m old and my brain turns to mush._

But Witcher’s lived long lives, the oldest rumored to have made it past four-hundred. Thinking of living another three-hundred and twenty years with only memories of Jaskier made him feel rather small and alone.

Geralt huffs and turns onto his side, facing the lute. His eyes catch on his potion sack sitting on the other side of it, giving him an idea. He slowly sits and reaches toward the pouch, dragging it onto his lap as he stuffs a hand inside. His fingers curl immediately around the bottle he's looking for, almost as if it knows what Geralt is thinking. He holds the bottle of liquid hemlock up to his face, swirling it around to see how much is left. Seeing as he had only taken a few mouthfuls the night before, there is still a good amount.

_What are you doing?_ A Jaskier-sounding voice echoes in his mind. _You_ know _the results can be fatal if you drink that too often._

Geralt rolls his eyes and ignores it, tipping the contents into his mouth and swallowing down half the bottle. He grimaces at the taste before shoving the cork back inside, carefully setting the bottle back into his satchel.

“Maybe it won’t give me a dreamless sleep, but if it’s anything like last night, at least I’ll get to see you,” he murmurs to the voice, laying back down as the potions burning effects start in his lungs.

And maybe it won’t be as good as having a living, breathing Jaskier in his arms, but if the hemlock will give him just a small dose of that reality back, then he’d gladly take it until the bottle was all used up.

He closes his eyes and smiles as his mind becomes sluggish. He thinks of the blue eyes and the world's most beautiful voice as the darkness washes over him.

~~~

The strumming of a lute is what wakes him.

He blinks his eyes open, the usual post-sleep heaviness missing as if he hadn’t even fallen asleep in the first place. He immediately turns his head to the left, breath catching in his throat at the sight.

Sure enough, Jaskier is sitting there cross-legged, the glow of the fire illuminating him and making him look ethereal. He’s got his lute pulled into his lap, head bowed in concentration as he plucks a soft tune and mutters to himself.

Geralt can’t help but let out a huff of amazement, causing Jaskier to stop his strumming and look up at Geralt with a questioning gaze.

“About time you woke up,” Jaskier teases, sending him a warm smile. “I was starting to feel neglected.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Geralt says, voice low and scratchy. He quickly sits up and drinks in Jaskier’s entire form.

“Where else would I be, darling?” Jaskier questions. He sets the lute aside and crawls the few feet over to Geralt, not even bothering to ask before he straddles Geralt’s lap and plops himself down onto it.

The touch is a complete shock to Geralt’s system, not expecting the solid, warm body to mold against his so perfectly. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, really. For Jaskier to go right through him like a ghost? To vanish the moment he tried to touch him? He pushes the thoughts away immediately and wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist, settling him comfortably on his lap. Jaskier wastes no time in wrapping his arms around Geralt’s neck and pulling him into a soft, lazy kiss.

Geralt groans into it, bringing a hand up to tangle in the soft strands of Jaskier’s hair. They sit like that for a long while, swallowing each other’s kisses and giving gentle touches and just _being_ together. The bard’s mouth tastes like the sweetest of wines, making Geralt want to drink his fill. Eventually, Jaskier’s ragged breathing makes him pull back, not wanting to suffocate the man with his kisses. Instead, he tilts Jaskier’s head back with a firm hand and starts sucking delicate bruises onto the creamy skin.

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier breathes, fingers clutching desperately at the back of Geralt’s shirt. Geralt shivers in pleasure at the feeling of fingernails poking into his skin.

Geralt lets up for a moment, pulling back to look into Jaskier’s eyes, both of them breathing hard. “Tell me a story,” he rasps.

“Oh, _now_ you want a story? Honestly, Geralt,” Jaskier huffs, cheeks ruddy and eyes full of amusement.

“Please, I just…” Geralt trails off, eyes searching Jaskier’s. He sends the bard a small smile. “I just want to hear your voice. That’s all.”

Jaskier stares at him for a moment, a hundred questions in his eyes, but he must see the desperation in Geralt’s face and decides to not ask any of them.

“What story would you like to hear?” he asks, once again his cheerful self. “I can tell you about the time I was nearly gutted by a lord in Toussaint. Or I could talk about the first time I played in a tavern. Gods, it was embarrassing. Oh! Or I could tell you about--”

Geralt cuts him off with a loud laugh. He’d be perfectly content sitting here and listening to him ramble all night, but there's one question he wants to ask.

“When did you know you wanted to travel with me?”

Jaskier smiles at the question and strokes his fingertips down Geralt’s cheek, giving a light laugh when Geralt catches them with his own hand and presses a delicate kiss to each fingertip.

“Why, the moment I laid eyes on you, my dear.”

Jaskier then launches into the long tale of how he knew he was destined to be by Geralt’s side the rest of his life and how dull his days had been before he’d gotten tangled up in the Witcher’s shenanigans. Geralt listens to every word, reliving every moment of their travels together as the bard uses not only his voice but his entire body to tell the story. He’s taken back to the first moment they shared a bed, the first moment he’d seen Jaskier naked, the exact moment he realized he felt more than friendship for the bard and plenty of other small moments that were just as significant.

“Oooh, yes, and then there’s our first _kiss_ , of course!”

Geralt groans, falling backward onto the grass and pulling Jaskier down with him. “Don’t remind me,” he rumbles, staring up into Jaskier’s laughing face.

The tale was embarrassing, really. A few months after Geralt had accepted his feelings for the bard, and after an unhealthy dose of bullying from Yennefer, Geralt had decided to finally tell Jaskier how he felt. The only thing stopping him had been, well, _words_. He was, and still _is_ , terrible with words, but he thought having some drinks at the tavern would significantly ease them. Unfortunately, what was supposed to have been a few drinks to lighten him up had turned into a couple dozen, complete with slurred speech and impaired vision. It had, however, given him the liquid courage he needed to go confess his feelings.

So he’d left the tavern and marched his way to the inn, stumbled his way up the steps to their room, and flung open the door with all the grace of, well, of a drunken Witcher. Jaskier had been startled when the door connected with the wall, but Geralt hadn’t bothered to ask if he was ok. Instead, he had marched over to the surprised bard, exclaimed, “I like you and I’m going to kiss you now,” before doing exactly that. Only, instead of the soft kiss he’d been thinking of for months on end, he'd managed to clunk their foreheads together and accidentally bite Jaskier’s lip in the process.

Jaskier had given a loud yelp and pulled backward, fresh blood oozing from the new cut on his lip as he stared wide-eyed at the Witcher. And Geralt, being the gentleman he was, lifted a hand to reach for a rag so he could wipe the blood off and apologize. Instead, his stomach gave a sickening lurch, making him reach for the closest object to him, shove it under his mouth, and promptly unload the contents of his stomach into it before he passed out on the floor.

There had been no way to describe his embarrassment the next morning as he apologized profusely to Jaskier and cleaned up his own vomit.

_“Really, Geralt?”_ Jaskier had groaned. _“Of all things, you had to puke into my boot?”_

Yes, it was a mortifying story that he’d told Jaskier to never mention again.

Jaskier’s laughter brings him back to the present.

“I let you have a redo the next night. It didn’t _all_ end badly,” he teases, fingers playing with Geralt’s chest hair.

Geralt swats his bum and gives it a small squeeze. “You’re getting cheeky, bard.”

“That’s what you like about me,” Jaskier purrs, blinking up at Geralt through thick lashes.

Geralt shivers at the sheer beauty of him, committing the look to memory. Jaskier must take the shiver as something temperature related, for he crawls off Geralt’s lap and takes off his blue doublet, laying the material across Geralt’s torso like a blanket. The material is warmed from Jaskier’s body and smells exactly like him. Geralt closes his eyes in contentment as Jaskier starts running his fingers through Geralt’s hair, humming a soft tune.

Geralt smiles, murmuring, “I wish I could spend every day like this.”

And just like that, the fingers in his hair stop their movement. Geralt frowns and opens his eyes, about to question why Jaskier has stopped, but the serious look on Jaskier’s face makes the question die on his lips.

Jaskier strokes a finger down Geralt’s cheek, sending him a sad smile. “You can,” he whispers. “All you have to do is wake up.”

_Why?_ He panics. _Why would I want to wake up when everything I want is here in my dreams?_

Before he has a chance to vocalize his question, his mind goes fuzzy and the darkness pulls him under once more.

Geralt jerks awake with a gasp, hand immediately shooting out to his left. Instead of meeting the soft flesh of Jaskier’s body, he’s met with nothing but the hard wood of the bard’s lute. The disappointment he feels is immense, wanting nothing more than to be greeted with Jaskier’s smile. He stares at the instrument, wishing desperately that it was Jaskier’s sleeping form that was curled up to his side instead of a mere memento of him.

Geralt sighs as he looks back up to the sky. The stars are gone now, replaced with fluffy, white clouds that are visible in the early morning light. Once again, the hemlock had allowed him a decent night of sleep. It had _also_ proven his theory about dreaming of Jaskier. He has half a mind to stock up on a few bottles the next time he finds a merchant selling them but knows how slippery of a slope that is. He can’t even fathom the disappointment that would surely be etched upon Vesemir’s face if he knew what Geralt is currently thinking. A Witcher numbing their pain with liquid hemlock? Absurd. Not to mention, a death sentence.

Though Geralt’s body can sustain an immense amount of damage, hemlock is a poison that eats away at the insides. For a human, just one drink is fatal. As a Witcher, his body can handle a lot more poison, but too much in a short amount of time can also melt away his insides until he dies an agonizing death.

The stamping of a hoof shakes him from the morbid thoughts. He raises his neck and looks over at Roach. She’s giving him the side-eye, pawing at the ground, clearly feeling neglected.

“All right,” he rasps. “We’ll be on our way, girl.”

He pushes himself into a sitting position and the material draped across his chest pools around his waist. He doesn't think anything of it at first, simply pushing the blanket to the side as he stands up. But after he’s on his feet and does a few stretches, he bends down to pick it up and freezes, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing up.

Laying on the ground is _not_ a blanket like he first thought.

It’s Jaskier’s blue doublet.

The same blue doublet that Jaskier had draped over him in the dream.

The same blue doublet that he had fucking _buried Jaskier in_.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Geralt growls, looking around wildly, as if someone was going to pop out of the woods at any moment yelling, “Fooled you, Witcher!”

But there are no sounds of movement or breathing from another living creature. Just him and Roach and no one else.

“Dream my _arse_ ,” he growls again, thinking of Yennefer’s words from the previous day. He quickly bends down and snatches up the material, bringing it close to his face for examination. Sure enough, it smells exactly like Jaskier, as if he had been wearing it only moments before. There is no blood visible, nor are there any rips or tears from his fall down the ravine. But the current state of the doublet is the least of his concern. He just wants to know how the _fuck_ it got here.

He gives a cautious glance around the trees once more, half expecting Jaskier to be whistling a tune as he comes strolling out. It’s a ridiculous thought because Jaskier is _dead_. But, then again, he never expected the bard’s doublet to appear out of thin air, either.

Mind reeling, he turns and walks toward Roach, whose ears are perked with interest. He raises an eyebrow at her, holding the cloth out toward her.

“Did you see who left this?” Geralt asks, feeling only mildly idiotic.

Roach nickers softly, pawing at the dirt with a hoof.

“I wish you could talk,” he replies, stroking her neck. “I think you’d have a lot to say.”

Despite the logic Yennefer had given him the previous day, Geralt no longer believes it. Yes, Yennefer could have been right about it being a mere coincidence of finding Jaskier’s lute in his dream. Stranger things could happen, after all. However, waking up covered with the material of his dead lovers' clothing that he was buried in was no longer in coincidental territory. It was damn near _impossible._

That leaves only one possible conclusion; Jaskier _has_ to be alive somehow.

What other explanation is there? While Jaskier most likely isn’t physically alive --honestly, why would he just drop off his doublet and then _leave_?-- there is a good possibility that he is conscious on a spiritual level. Spirits, while it takes a lot to manifest themselves to people who are awake and alert, are easily able to infiltrate dreams due to the dreamers’ low brain activity. The more a person’s guard is down, the better chance a spirit has to make contact with them. Spirits are also able to move objects, on occasion. That is a clear explanation as to how the doublet found its way to Geralt. As for how all the rips were mended and the blood was removed, Geralt isn’t sure.

Geralt reaches beneath his armor for the second time in less than twenty-four hours and pulls out the xenovox. Geralt knows that this wasn’t its intended use when Yennefer gifted him the communication device, but Geralt now has _proof_ that there’s more to the matter at hand than either of them had first thought. He needs her to give him some solid answers.

He calls for her, quick and urgent, clutching the doublet in his fist as he paces back and forth. Only a few minutes pass before he hears the whistling of a portal appearing, the wind from it upsetting the leaves on the ground and making Roach take an uneasy step backward.

He immediately stops his pacing, turning to see not one but _two_ sorceresses stepping out of the portal, a curious Triss trailing behind Yennefer. He walks up to them in two long strides, Yennefer raising an eyebrow at his forwardness.

“Geralt,” Triss smiles. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

Geralt tries to smile at her but knows it comes off as a grimace. Triss is a sweet girl who deserves nothing but genuine smiles and good conversation. Unfortunately, Geralt has neither of those for her today.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you _two_ days in a row?” Yennefer smirks. Her voice is light but her eyes hold a hard edge to them, a clear message of _Make this quick, I’m a busy woman_.

So he tells the story as quickly as he can. He briefly fills Triss in on what she hadn’t heard the previous day before explaining what had happened just last night. He talks about Jaskier waking him up playing the lute, how they spent a few hours together just talking and cuddling, and eventually makes it to the part about Jaskier covering him with the doublet.

“I know you thought the lute was a coincidence,” Geralt says to Yennefer, who has her eyebrows furrowed. “And it very well could have been. But this? His doublet appearing with no trace of rips or blood? That’s not a coincidence, Yennefer.”

“Hm, no, I suppose not,” she murmurs.

“Look.” He shoves the doublet toward her, drinking in the look on her face. “He’s got to be alive in some form, Yen. I _know_ it. There’s no other explanation.”

Yennefer just stares at his hand, blinking slowly. She frowns, opening her mouth as if to speak but no words come out. Instead, Geralt watches as she swallows thickly and exchanges an unreadable look with Triss. Triss flickers her eyes back to Geralt and gives him a small, doleful smile.

“Geralt,” Yennefer says, slow and soft as if she’s trying to soothe a baby animal. “That’s _your_ coat.”

Geralt scoffs at the comment, shaking the material in his hand.

“Funny, Yen. As if I’d be caught dead wearing--”

_Blue_ , he wants to say, but the words die in his throat as he looks down at his hand. Clutched in his grasp is _not_ the silky, blue material of Jaskier’s doublet, but the course, black material of his own coat, instead.

Geralt _stares_.

His mind spins.

There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears and he feels light-headed.

He turns the material over, wondering if it was somehow a trick of the light. But as he lifts it to his face to inspect it, the color stays black and the only scent wafting from it is his own woodsy musk.

He turns in a sharp circle, eyes frantically searching the ground.

Had he somehow dropped it? Swapped it with his own coat by mistake?

“Where is it?” he whispers, throwing his own coat to the ground in frustration. He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the ends as his exasperation builds. Though he scours the grounds multiple times, he comes up empty-handed, his emotions turning into a mixture of anger and utter helplessness.

“I’m not crazy,” he mutters. “I had it right here. I _swear_ I never put the damn thing down. I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy--”

“Geralt--” Yennefer says in that soft, _pitying_ voice of hers. It makes Geralt’s blood boil and his anger flows in waves.

“I’m not fucking _crazy_ , Yennefer!” he bellows, teeth bared and spittle flying. “I had it right here in my hands! His smell, he was fucking _here_ , god damn it!”

He knows he must look mad, eyes wild and chest heaving with adrenaline. Any sane person would turn and flee, but sweet Triss just takes a step forward, gives him a small smile, and says, “Maybe you just need to take more Hemlock.” 

His blinks at her, anger deflating within seconds as his brain tries to process what exactly she said. He isn't sure what Yennefer has told Triss about his past few nights, if she has told her anything at all, but even if she _has_ mentioned the bit about him taking the liquid hemlock, he’d have never expected either of them to encourage his deadly new habit.

_You must have heard wrong_ , he thinks. _She’d never suggest such a thing._

“What?”

“I _said_ ,” she repeats, only her voice isn’t her own. It’s _Geralt’s_ voice coming out of her dainty lips, low and throaty. “Maybe you just need to take more hemlock.” And just like that, she’s thrusting a full vial toward him, the musty smell of hemlock soiling the air around him.

Geralt takes a step back, alarm bells going off in his mind. It's one thing to completely lose track of an item --he’d had the doublet _right in his hand_ , for fuck sake-- but it's another thing entirely to be hallucinating voices. He glances around uneasily, wondering if some magical being had stumbled upon him last night and altered all of his senses. What other explanation was there? All Witcher’s had enhanced senses, meaning they were rarely wrong when it came to hearing, seeing, and _especially_ remembering. A Witcher doesn't just casually set something down and forget where they put it. A Witcher doesn't accidentally mistake one item for another. And Witcher’s _certainly_ don't hallucinate voices.

“The fuck,” he whispers gruffly, eyes flickering back and forth between Triss’s face and the vial of hemlock. And what the hell is she doing with hemlock anyway? He glances over at Yennefer, wanting to see her reaction to Triss’ sudden voice swap, but the violet-eyed sorceress is just staring at him with an expectant look as if this is a totally normal occurrence.

Geralt swallows thickly and, not for the first time, fears he may be going mad.

Triss jiggles the vial in her hand, the contents sloshing around inside. Geralt holds eye contact with her for a while, wondering if she will eventually snatch her hand back and declare that it’s all a terrible joke, but she doesn’t. Instead, she nods her head at the bottle, encouraging him to take it.

At a complete loss for what to do, he ever so slowly reaches his hand out and curls his fingers around the vial, prying it from her hand.

Triss smiles sweetly at him and nods. “Remember,” she says, still using Geralt’s voice. “One swallow will calm you down. Two swallows will help you sleep. But take three swallows and you’ll be put into a sleep so deep that you’ll never wake up.”

He gives the two of them a weary look, suddenly feeling bone tired. The mental exhaustion from the past two days is catching up with him, and if Triss --if it really _is_ Triss-- is encouraging him to sleep, then to hell with it. To hell with thinking, to hell with feeling, to hell with it all.

He carefully uncorks the bottle and brings it to his lips, grimacing at the burn of the first sip. He ignores the feeling and goes in for a second mouthful, the two women watching him silently.

_Fuck it_ , his mind hisses. _Why not take that third drink? What use is a Witcher anyway if his senses don’t even work properly?_

Mind made up, he brings the bottle to his lips for a final time, moments away from having an eternal rest. But just before he can tip the contents into his mouth, a very familiar voice stops him.

“Geralt, what on earth are you _doing_?”

It’s not Yennefer’s voice, nor Triss’, and it’s _certainly_ not his own voice this time. It’s _Jaskier’s._

Geralt looks up sharp and wide-eyed, drinking in Jaskier’s form. Jaskier is wearing the same clothing he was buried in, free of stains and wearing that _fucking blue doublet._ He is standing right where Yennefer had been only moments before, a look of concern on his handsome face. Triss doesn’t look even mildly worried about standing next to the dead bard.

That’s when Geralt knows for a _fact_ that he is losing his mind.

The concerned look leaves the bard’s face as he marches right up to Geralt, wagging a finger in his face as if he were scolding a naughty child. “Geralt, you’ll die if you take that last drink. Weren’t you just listening?”

Geralt takes a step back, looking over at Triss. “What sort of trickery is this?” he asks, an edge of desperation to his voice, desperate for an explanation, desperate for all this nonsense to come to an end.

Triss just gives him a look of concern in reply. He then looks around for Yennefer, hoping she can explain this all to him, but she’s nowhere to be found. Where had she gone? Didn’t she know Geralt needed answers? But seeing only Triss and Jaskier standing in front of him makes him come to an entirely different conclusion. Had Yennefer somehow morphed into Jaskier, imitating his looks and voice? Was this some sick way of getting back at Geralt for something?

He shoots ‘Jaskier’ a glare, clenching his jaw as he grits out, “Yennefer, this isn’t fucking funny. You need to stop this insanity.”

A pained look crosses Jaskier’s face as he stumbles desperately toward Geralt, clutching the Witcher’s shirt in his grasp. “Geralt,” he says, low and urgent, blue eye pleading. “ _Please_ wake up.”

Geralt takes another step back, freeing his clothing from Jaskier’s clutches. He drops the vial to the ground, the rest of its contents spilling out as he furiously rubs at his eyes with his palms.

“Why do you keep saying that?” he growls. “I don’t know what you mean!” He looks back up as he expects an answer from the bard, but as if he were a mere figment of Geralt’s imagination, Jaskier is nowhere in sight. Instead, Yennefer is back in her original place with Triss by her side, the two of them sending him unsettled looks.

Triss leans in toward Yennefer. “Has he been drugged?” she whispers, her voice finally back to her own soft-spoken tone.

He feels a cooling sensation wash over his body as Yennefer uses her magic to check his vitals.

“Not in the way you think,” she mutters to Triss before turning her full attention on Geralt. She steps up to him and gives him a serious look, eyes holding no trace of humor. “Listen to me. You may be a Witcher, Geralt, but not even _you_ can escape the effects of liquid hemlock. You have to stop taking it immediately. It’s seriously affecting your brain. I fear you may cause irreparable damage if you keep taking it. Do you promise me you’ll stop?”

Geralt looks at her for a long moment, wondering if it truly was the liquid hemlock that was causing the hallucinations. Vesemir had never mentioned any side-effects apart from death. Granted, who would want to be the test subject for _that_ particular research? Not knowing what else to say, not knowing what else to chalk it all up to, he sighs tiredly and gives a small nod.

The side of Yennefer’s lips quirks up into a small smile. She gives his shoulder a squeeze before pulling him into one of her rare hugs. He wasn’t much of a touchy-feely person, except when it came to Jaskier. But Jaskier was no longer here. There would be no more full-bodied hugs from the bard, no more warm cuddles in front of fires and beneath fur blankets. Truthfully, a comforting hug was exactly what he needed at that moment.

He rests his cheek on top of Yennefer’s head and wraps his arms around her small waist, letting her hold him tightly for a while. Triss catches his gaze over Yennefer’s head and smiles, moving forward to join in the hug. He just lets himself _feel_ for a bit, shamelessly basking in the embrace of his friends. But it’s over all too soon, the two women pulling away and taking their warmth with them. They give him one final wave before stepping back through the portal, leaving Geralt alone once more.

~~~

Once they’re gone, Geralt paces, running hands through his already wild hair. He knows Roach is silently judging him from where she’s tied up, but he pays her no mind, too lost in his own thoughts to care. Despite the diagnosis Yennefer has given him, he can’t help but feel like he is going completely insane.

_Think of your reputation_ , scolds a voice that sounds suspiciously like Yennefer. _What good is a Witcher who can’t trust his own senses? A_ dead _one. The Insane Witcher of the Woods, they’ll call you. Pathetic._

Geralt lets out a frustrated growl, so tired of having the same conversation with himself. He wants _so very badly_ to believe Yennefer, to believe that it was merely the hemlock making his brain go haywire, but there’s still a tiny part in the back of his mind that doesn’t entirely believe that. After all, that still doesn't explain how he still has Jaskier’s lute in possession.

Geralt quickly glances over at the lute and sighs in relief when he sees it still sitting on the ground. If it had magically disappeared in all the chaos, he’d probably try to run himself through with his own sword.

And while Yenn’s explanation of seeing a small glimpse of it that fateful day was a good theory, Geralt knows for a fact he was nowhere close enough to see the instrument. Especially since it had landed behind the tree and out of direct view. Geralt had been a little busy fighting for his life to bother with finding it at that moment.

As for Jaskier’s doublet, well, that was probably a lost cause, for there was no explanation sane enough to make him understand what exactly had happened. Was the whole thing just an illusion? Had he vividly hallucinated everything this morning? Was this just his brain's method of coping with Jaskier’s death? The last option seemed the most plausible, no matter how pathetic it made him look.

And then, of course, there’s the maddening question his brain won’t stop asking:

_What if he hasn’t crossed over?_

Once again, the idea of Jaskier being in the spirit realm crosses his mind, but he knows that Yennefer is great at what she does. If she says there’s no trace of him in the spirit realm, then he most likely isn’t there.

However, what if there’s a different explanation?

_What if he wasn’t_ truly _dead when you buried him?_

The thought makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and goosebumps rise on his arms. While Jaskier had certainly looked and felt dead in those last moments, could Geralt have made a mistake? Could Geralt have been so consumed by grief that his ears had deceived him? Had he _really_ heard Jaskier’s heartbeat stop, or was his mind just conjuring his biggest fear?

Had he buried Jaskier alive, seeing all the blood and bone and guts, and only _thought_ he’d been dead?

Surprisingly, Geralt had seen people survive much worse. He’d witnessed a man being stabbed through the skull, seemingly on the brink of death, only to be revived by the finest doctor around. While brain damage had been prominent, the man still walked away alive.

And then there had been a young lad mauled by a mountain lion deep in the woods of Posada. His stomach had been torn open and his throat had been used as a chew toy, but a handful of ladies in town had been quick to disinfect and stitch him back up. He’d be physically scarred for life, but he’d still be around to tell the tale.

It was stories like these, and a small handful of others, that made the impossible idea of Jaskier being alive _not so_ impossible, after all. If, perhaps, he _was_ hanging onto life by a mere thread, his soul would not have moved on to the spirit world yet, making Yennefer’s claims true in a way. But did that mean he wouldn’t be able to communicate with Geralt at _all_? What if he was stuck in some ether-like state, trapped between worlds of the living and the dead, and therefore only had enough power to contact Geralt while he was unconscious? Was that a possibility?

If it were, and Jaskier was indeed still alive, it meant Geralt was quickly running out of time.

Knowing what he must do, Geralt quickly gathers the meager supplies at the makeshift campsite and slings it all over Roach’s back before hopping up and spurring her into a gallop.

_You’re insane_ , the voice hisses.

He ignores it. He _knows._

It takes the two of them only a handful of minutes to race back into town. They garner quite a bit of attention, curious looks and questioning gazes thrown their way. He recognizes a few of the men as he passes them by, knows they helped lead him to Jaskier’s burial spot that night. But he has no time to stay and make small talk, not like he’d _want_ to in the first place. Instead, he spurs Roach into going faster, a sense of urgency creeping up on him.

Once they reach the thicket of trees, he hops off Roach, giving her a gentle pat before he makes his way through a wall of branches and thorns. After what seems like forever, the thicket gives way to an opening, Geralt stumbling onto the flower field and shielding his eyes from the bright sun. As he squints and looks around, his breath catches in his throat at the sheer beauty of the space. If he had thought the field was beautiful being illuminated by the moon that night, that was _nothing_ compared to what it looked like in the light of day.

The field was larger than he had expected, seeming to stretch for miles on end. Vibrant buttercups filled every inch of space, their yellow petals glowing beneath the sun. They waved gently in the breeze, their soft, fragrant scent ticking Geralt’s nose. He tears his eyes from the flowers in front of him, looking up at the one lone tree in the middle of the field, heart clenching painfully at the memory of standing beneath it.

Though his breath feels as if it’s been stolen, his legs waste no time carrying him toward it. Every step feels like it takes him 100 years to get there, but he eventually slows to a stop in the shade of the tree, eyes hyper-focused on the dirt. Though he hadn’t been able to see the grave that well in the night, the sight of it gives him a detached feeling, as if his spirit is weightless as his body stands and looks onward.

The dirt of the grave is still dark in color, not enough time having passed to settle it properly. It’s also the only part of the field that has no buttercups growing from it, for Geralt had upturned most of them when he had dug the grave.

_It’s strange_ , Geralt thinks numbly. _Strange how beneath this tiny pile of dirt lies the body of someone I love._

Without further hesitation, Geralt drops to his knees at the edge of the soil and gently places both hands on it, the coolness beneath his palms grounding him a little. His heart twinges painfully as he remembers what Jaskier had looked like as he lowered him down, pale as death and so very still wrapped up in Geralt’s huge cloak.

_Remember why you came. He could still be alive. Why are you wasting time?_

He shakes his head to clear his mind, knowing that the voice is right. This would finally give him the answer he was looking for. If Jaskier was still alive, he’d rush him back to town and demand the best doctor put him back together and _quickly_. But if Jaskier _wasn’t_ alive, if Geralt was going to find nothing but rotting flesh and the rancid smell of decay, then he was just setting himself up for an extreme type of hurt. Either way, he would finally have his answer.

With that last thought, Geralt takes a deep breath in, lets it out, and starts to dig. The process will take much longer without a shovel and will leave him completely filthy in the end, but he doesn’t care. He just concentrates on the cool feeling of the soil between his fingers, concentrates on the simple routine of scooping away the soil with his hands. It’s packed tightly together and Geralt really has to use his strength to dig in, brow furrowing in utter concentration as he swears every so often.

It’s once he’s made it about six inches down that he notices something is off.

It starts off as a small vibration, making him frown and look down at his medallion. But the medallion is completely still against his chest, meaning no magic is in the general vicinity. After a moment he shrugs it off, not enjoying the vibrations but having no other choice than to ignore them. He digs his hands back into the soil and frowns again when the vibration gets stronger. This time he feels it mostly in his hands, making him look down at the earth around him. Is it an earthquake? Though rare, they're not completely unheard of.

However, when he feels the dirt beneath his hands start to move on its _own_ , his stomach leaps into his throat and he stares at the soil with wide eyes. The dirt pushes upward at first, making the grave almost look like it’s rising. But then the soil stops the movement all at once, Geralt helpless to do anything but blink at it.

Geralt swallows thickly, hands hovering above the dirt as he whispers, “Jaskier? Is… is that _you_?”

_Who else would it be?_ His mind hisses. _Unbury him, you fool!_

Not needing to be told twice, Geralt continues his quest, digging his fingers in deeper than ever before, trying to shovel the dirt out at a rapid pace. Who knows how much oxygen he had left down there?

“You’re fine,” Geralt rasps, working frantically to uncover something, _anything_. “Just hang on, I’m trying to--”

But he doesn’t get to finish the sentence, for the soil is upturned quickly from beneath, two pale, dirty hands pushing up from the dirt and grabbing onto Geralt’s shirt with an inhumane grip. Completely startled, and just a bit terrified, Geralt goes to shift backward, hands circling Jaskier’s wrists to try and pry them away, but their grasp is unbreakable. He struggles with the tight hold for a few moments, panic starting to set in as he realizes that something is very wrong. Before he can so much as shout for help --and honestly, who was going to come?-- more dirt is being upended, moist soil sliding every which way as the body beneath drags it’s way to the top.

The moment Jaskier sits up, top half free and legs still buried beneath, Geralt can’t do anything but stare in a mixture of astonishment and horror.

Jaskier’s face is caked with dirt and dried blood, his hair a complete mess. Geralt’s cloak appears to have fallen off, the huge gash down Jaskier’s middle still open, dirt mixing with his blood and organs. But despite the rough appearance, it’s the expression on Jaskier’s face that is the most bone-chilling.

The bard’s teeth are bared into a malicious smile, a shock of white compared to the dirtiness of his face. His eyes blaze with a sick sort of demented glee, no trace of the happy, loving man Geralt knew.

Geralt’s eyes widen as Jaskier’s brute strength pulls him forward, their faces only inches apart. Downright terrified now, Geralt tries to pull away but it’s all in vain, Jaskier letting out a deep, malicious cackle. The smell of decay is strong on his breath, making Geralt gag. In the blink of an eye, the evil smile is gone, replaced with a look of pure rage.

“Why did you leave me here, Geralt?” Jaskier growls, digging his nails into Geralt’s chest. The tips of their noses are brushing in a false sense of intimacy, but Geralt has never felt more scared in all of his life. “You left me here to fucking _die_.”

“No, Jaskier,” Geralt pleads, his hands trying desperately to pry Jaskier’s hands away. “I thought you were _dead_ , little lark. I _swear_!”

Jaskier lets out another vicious cackle, digging his nails in even deeper. Geralt hisses, feeling blood start to ooze from the marks.

“You left me here, Witcher,” Jaskier hisses. “Cast me aside like I was _nothing_.”

“I would _never_ do that, Jaskier,” he rasps. “I came back to _save_ you. I prom--”

“You _promised_ that I could be with you the rest of my life,” Jaskier snarls, a demented grin twisting itself onto his lips. “I intend for you to keep that promise, _darling_. I’m not going back under without you!”

With no time or strength to react to the words, Geralt is helpless as Jaskier pulls him forward into a bruising kiss, teeth biting painfully into the skin of Geralt’s bottom lip. Then, before he can so much as blink, Jaskier is pulling him forward, pulling Geralt _into_ the dirt with him.

“ _No!_ ” Geralt yells, trying helplessly to grasp the edges of the grave, but Jaskier just gives him a venomous smirk and pulls him down into the dirt further. Geralt feels the dirt walls closing in on them as he’s dragged under, feeling a sense of claustrophobia as it gets darker and oxygen gets harder to take in. As the last ray of light is snuffed out by the soil, he gets one last glimpse of Jaskier’s crazed smile taunting him. Surrounded by nothing but darkness, Geralt panics as he feels the light-headed sensation of falling into an abyss, Jaskier’s evil echo of laughter the last thing he hears before he passes out completely.

~~~

Geralt jerks awake, heart pounding in his chest and body soaked with sweat. He looks around wildly, half-afraid and half-hopeful that he’ll see Jaskier with that twisted smile on his lips and insane glint in his eyes. But the only thing he sees in the dim candlelight are the four walls of the inn, Jaskier’s small sack of clothing sitting on the chair, and his own satchel of potions lying neglected in the corner of the room.

There’s no lute.

There’s no doublet.

There's no field of flowers surrounding him.

In that moment, Geralt feels a whole scale of different emotions, all of them swirling inside of him like a tornado trying to tear through his ribs and flesh. Not for the first time, he wishes the rumors about Witcher’s having no emotions was true. Usually when his feelings were keyed up like this, he’d take his sword to some trees and turn all of his feelings into anger, cutting whole trees down to nothing but mere piles of firewood. But turning half the room to sawdust would most likely get him a lifetime ban from the inn. And since his legs don't feel like cooperating, he isn't going to take his rage outdoors, either.

Instead, as he sits and stares at the wall, he lets the emotions rush him, crash over his heart and brain like the waves of a tsunami. His whole body shakes as he puts his elbows on his knees and rests his head in his hands, allowing himself to do the one thing he hates.

He sits there and lets himself cry.

He cries for Jaskier.

He cries for the life they will no longer live together.

He cries because he misses him, misses the way he felt in his arms and the way his laugh sounded in the air and the way his eyes sparkled in the sun.

And most of all, he cries because none of it was real. The lute, the doublet, his encounter with Yennefer, none of it. It had been nothing more than a dream.

By this point, his sobbing has grown so loud that he’s surprised nobody has pounded down the door yet. But perhaps a Witcher in mourning is more frightening than one who’s enraged. People knew how to handle an angry Witcher, slinging insults and stones and the like. But a grief-stricken one? That was unfamiliar territory.

Blinking through his tears, Geralt spots the bottle of hemlock he’d drunk sitting innocently on the side table. A sudden feeling of rage overshadows his pain, a fierce growl ripping from his throat as he snatches it from its place. He glares at the black bottle, wanting nothing more than to throw it across the room and watch it shatter to a million pieces. Though it was supposed to cause a dreamless sleep, it was most likely the hemlock that had caused the bizarre dreams, most likely the potion that made Geralt feel even the _slightest bit_ whole again upon seeing Jaskier.

As he stares at the vial, chest heaving with anger, the feeling ever so slowly drains from his body. His grip loosens on the bottle, not enough to drop it but enough so it won’t crack beneath the force of his grip. The glare on his face melts away, eyeing the potion with a bone-tired weariness, instead. He feels like he’s been running around for days on end when really he must have been sleeping for only a handful of hours.

He’s exhausted.

He glances over at Jaskier’s belongings, a sharp pain twisting through his heart. Though it may have just been a dream, it had made his reality clear enough for him: there wasn’t going to be much of a life without Jaskier. How could there be when Jaskier’s entire being had consumed him so fully? Jaskier had been a bright light when Geralt was in a dark place, sweeping in and filling all of his cracks with sunshine until he was overflowing with it. It was Jaskier who had changed his life for the better, teaching him that it was ok to love and let himself _be loved_ in return. It was Jaskier who molded him into a better man, not by bullying him into it but by simply making Geralt want to be better _for_ him. So how could he continue? How could he pull himself out of bed every morning and face the day knowing damn well that there would be no bard walking beside Roach, nor the soothing melody of a song to accompany them?

As Geralt sits and stares at Jaskier’s belongings, he realizes the answer is simple;

There _is_ no life without Jaskier.

He could go on living for decades, slaying monsters and being constantly on the move, but he doesn’t want to. The bone-deep exhaustion he feels isn’t just due to his physical state, but his mental one as well. He knows people die every day, that their loved ones find a way to cope and move on. But Geralt _can’t_ , for not only did a Witcher have emotions but their emotions were highly sensitive compared to the average humans. He would most likely feel this heavy-hearted numbness until the day he died.

So, if he must live in a world without Jaskier, then he’d rather just not live at all.

He swallows thickly as he looks back down to the bottle in his hands. It’s still pretty full, despite the few swigs he’d taken to try and obtain that dreamless sleep. He wipes away a few more tears that escape the crease of his eye before popping the cork off the top. He slowly brings it to his lips, feeling rather calm for what he was about to do.

_This is it,_ he thinks, the bitter smell of the hemlock tickling his nose. _As soon as I drink this, there will be no more white wolf. I’ll be with you again, my little lark._

Without another thought, he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a long swig, the liquid burning his throat and lungs as it makes its way down.

“One swallow to calm you down, two to help you sleep,” he mumbles, ignoring the fiery sensation as he takes another mouthful. He pauses for a moment, swirling the last of the contents around in the vial. It’s not much, but it will certainly do the trick, even if it is an agonizing death.

_Three swallows and you’ll never wake up_ , a voice sounding like Triss whispers, sweetly coaxing him to down the rest.

Who is he to deny its wish? He tips his head back, bottle pressed to his lips to finish the job--

“Wait.”

The voice is loud and clear, startling Geralt. He nearly drops the bottle but corrects his group last second, looking up in the dim candlelit room to see no other than Jaskier standing there, his outfit completed with a blue doublet that is completely free of bloodstains and tears. There are no organs spilling out of his stomach, not a speck of dirt on his face, nor any hair out of place on his perfect head. There is a soft look of concern clouding his features, not a trace of malice to be found like the Jaskier from his nightmare.

Is this it? Is this what he sees before he dies? Does the mind hallucinate, or is that just another side effect of the hemlock? He knows for a _fact_ that he's awake this time.

Geralt can’t help but let out a bitter, slightly hysterical laugh at the sight of the bard, wiping snot from his nose with his free hand. What a sorry mess he was.

“I really have gone mad, haven’t I?” he whispers to himself. He wants nothing more than to train his eyes back on Jaskier, but he’s afraid that the bard is nothing more than a figment of his imagination. He was so sure he was awake this time, but how could he trust his own mind at this point?

The soft sound of footfalls echo throughout the room as Jaskier walks over to him. He kneels down in front of Geralt, resting a warm hand gently on Geralt’s leg as the other gently coaxes the bottle of hemlock out of Geralt’s grip.

“You know this isn’t the answer, Geralt,” Jaskier says gently, blue eyes pleading as they stare into Geralt’s own.

Geralt growls in frustration, brushing past Jaskier as he stands abruptly and throws his hands in the air. “What the _fuck_ am I supposed to do then, Jaskier? Or Yennefer? Whoever the fuck you are. My imagination, I suppose.”

“Fight it,” Jaskier responds, getting to his feet and walking toward him. “The Geralt I know is a stubborn arse. He wouldn’t give up so easily.”

Geralt’s lips give the slightest twitch, amused at the gibe, but ignores it. Instead, he closes the space between them, looming over Jaskier’s smaller frame in mock-intimidation. “The Geralt you know doesn’t let the love of his life die, either,” he spits bitterly, chest heaving.

He expects Jaskier to retaliate somehow, throw a biting remark back at him or scoff and walk away. He never was the type to just sit and take Geralt’s bullshit. But he does neither of those things. Instead, a small, bittersweet smile graces his lips. He lifts a hand to Geralt’s cheek and caresses it with his fingertips.

“You love me?”

Geralt blinks down at him and sighs, nodding as he leans into the touch. “I can’t remember a time when I _didn’t_ love you, little lark,” he rasps, throat tight with emotion.

Jaskier huffs a small laugh through his nose and guides Geralt’s face down to his, bringing their lips together in a slow, delicate kiss. Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist, just _feeling_ the weight of him in his arms. They don’t deepen the kiss, don’t add tongues or teeth into the mix. It’s merely enough to just be holding each other for the moment, to soak up each other's presence like it’s the last time they’ll get the chance. Which, if this truly _is_ another dream or hallucination, then it very well might be for Geralt.

When the kiss eventually breaks, Geralt rests his forehead against Jaskier’s, closing his eyes as they hold each other and sway in place.

“Geralt?” Jaskier whispers softly, a hand playing gently with the hair at the back of Geralt’s neck. “I don’t know if you can hear me--”

Geralt frowns slightly. Of _course_ he can hear him. He’s only a breath away. But he doesn’t voice this reasoning, his mind suddenly feeling light and fuzzy, as if a sense of weightlessness has taken over his mind and body.

“--but I love you. I want you to wake up. I promise I’ll be here when you do.”

_Will you?_ He wants to ask. _Will you greet me on the other side? I can’t spend one more day of my life without you._

“Please wake, my love,” Jaskier murmurs. The soft touch of his fingers to Geralt’s cheek makes Geralt’s mind feel even heavier. A part of him is afraid to succumb to the darkness, afraid that he’ll somehow live a life of repeating the same situation day in and day out until he goes completely mad. But there’s something different this time, a tenderness to Jaskier’s voice that washes all of Geralt's worries away, soothing him from the tip of his head to the soles of his feet as he gently floats into the unknown.

This time when darkness reaches for him, he ventures into it willingly, no longer afraid.

~~~

Awareness comes to him ever so slowly, as if a heavy fog is being lifted. His head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, a dull pounding behind his eyes signaling a massive headache is about to come on. He panics for a moment, not able to see any of his surroundings. Everything is completely dark, no trace of light to be found. But before he works himself into a fit, he realizes his eyes are just closed and that he has _not,_ in fact, been shrouded in darkness.

Opening his eyes takes far more work than usual, his eyelids suddenly feeling like a ton of bricks. It doesn’t help that his eyes have been crusted shut, as if they’ve been closed for a lot longer than a night’s sleep. He eventually wins the battle of prying them open and immediately regrets it, the brightness of the room making the pounding in his head much more prominent. He goes to lift a hand up to shield his eyes but finds his arm is much too heavy to move. Exhausted from the struggle with his eyelids, he doesn’t bother attempting another arm lift, settling instead for squinting against the bright light.

Everything is hazy at first, his eyes not able to focus on anything around him. He makes out vague shapes and colors but nothing of true importance. He blinks sluggishly a few times, letting his eyes adjust to his surroundings, and when his eyes finally come into focus, the first thing he notices is that he’s lying in a bed. It’s a large bed, big enough to fit three or four people. The royal-purple sheets adorning it are soft and silky to the touch and have been pulled halfway up Geralt’s body by _someone_.

The next thing he notices are the bandages, white and large, all wrapped around his torso. He frowns down at them and tries to sit up to inspect them. He doesn’t recall having any wounds. A loud groan is ripped from his throat at the movement, pain flaring to life beneath the bandages.

A sharp intake of breath catches his attention. He grits his teeth against the pain and looks to his right. Jaskier is sitting there on a chair, staring in wide-eyed shock at him. The shock is immediately replaced with a watery grin as he surges forward, cupping Geralt’s face in his hands.

“Geralt!” Jaskier sniffs, a bubble of hysterical laughing filling the air. He then presses a dozen sloppy kisses all over Geralt’s face, causing him to wrinkle his nose. He eventually pulls back, tears glistening in his eyes as he croaks, “You’re awake!”

_Please wake, my love_ , echoes quietly in his mind, making him shiver.

“Of course I am,” he rasps, mouth dry as a desert. “You wouldn’t stop waking me.”

Jaskier giggles once before pressing another kiss to Geralt’s lips, the familiarity of it making Geralt smile.

“Gods, what am I thinking?” Jaskier asks as he pulls back. “You must be parched, darling. And starving! You haven’t eaten in weeks.”

Geralt frowns at that, trying to think of _why_. His mind is too muzzy to come up with an answer, brain fog blocking any kind of memories.

“I need to get Yenn,” Jaskier mutters, tripping over his own two feet in his haste to leave the room. As Geralt listens to Jaskier’s feet retreat down the hall, he takes the time to look at his surroundings. He’s in a decently sized room, an enormous window settled on the opposite wall from him allowing plenty of daylight to spill in. There’s a few elegant pieces of furniture throughout the room, the delicate carvings on the wardrobe and vanity no doubt costing a fortune. The color of the walls are a deep purple, almost an exact match to the bedsheets. There are a few decorations here and there: fine pieces of china, large paintings on the walls, a floor-length mirror with various pieces of jewelry draped over it.

_Yenn’s house_ , his mind supplies. He relaxes a bit at the revelation but still doesn’t know why he’s lying naked in her bed with bandages decorating his torso.

A couple pairs of brisk footsteps make him train his eyes on the doorway, watching as Jaskier and Yennefer walk in. Jaskier smiles at him brightly, carrying a large tray of food and a water pitcher over to the bed. Yennefer glides right up to him, a look of relief on her face as she looks him over.

“About time you woke your lazy arse up,” she mutters, sending him a small smirk.

As Jaskier helps him slowly sip some water, he takes a moment to study Yenn’s face. She’s always been a pale woman, but her skin is whiter than usual, almost taking on a grey hue. There are light circles beneath her eyes as if she hasn’t slept in days, and her hair appears to have grown a mind of its own, strands flying every which way.

“You look like hell,” he rasps, the coolness of the water feeling wonderful on his throat.

“Yes, well,” Yenn replies, waving a hand nonchalantly. “I had to keep you in a magically induced coma for nearly two weeks. Apologies if my appearance doesn’t suit you but it took a lot out of me.”

“Two weeks?” Geralt questions, eyes flickering between the two of them. “What in the hell happened?”

Yennefer hums to herself. “What was the last thing you remember?”

Geralt swallows and tries to think. He vaguely remembers finding a contract to kill a werewolf and making his way to the town to speak with the man who posted it. He remembers setting off that afternoon to try and find it, wishing for once in his life that Jaskier would just fucking _listen_ to him and stay at the inn. The rest of it is mostly bits and pieces: the glint of his sword reflecting the sun, a field of flowers, the burn of _something_ going down his throat.

“It’s… hazy at best,” he replies, coming up with a blank.

“Geralt, you nearly _died!_ ” Jaskier exclaims, plopping himself onto the edge of the bed. He takes Geralt’s hand in his own and gently kisses the scarred knuckles. “We were sent to kill a werewolf--”

“You mean _I_ was sent to kill a werewolf,” Geralt interrupts, smirking at the half-hearted smack he gets in return.

“Fine, _you_ were sent to kill a werewolf,” Jaskier huffs. “I was merely there for moral support! How can I make another song in your honor if--”

“Jaskier,” Yenn interrupts, giving him a look. “Get to the point.”

“Right, right,” he mutters, clearing his throat before he continues. “Anyway, we found the werewolf. Or, more like _it_ found _us_. But so did its entire pack! Which, might I add, the kind gentleman back in town _failed_ to tell us about. So, to make a long story short--”

“Never thought I’d see the day you told a short story,” Geralt mutters. Jaskier ignores him.

“--there was a lot of snarling and, and _teeth_ , and, oh! I fell down a ravine! That _hurt_. And when I _finally_ managed to claw my way back to the top, you were pretty outnumbered so I used my xenovox to call for Yenn because, hey! Magic can help!”

“You called Yenn because you thought I couldn’t handle it?” Geralt asks, feeling a tiny bit offended at the implication.

“Well _excuse me_. It’s a bloody good thing I did since not even a moment later, one of those beasts sent you flying against a tree and knocked you out cold. Then he decided to slice open your stomach and play with your guts, so had it not been for me, you just might be dead, thank you very much.”

“He’s right, you know,” Yenn says, crossing her arms over her chest. “You were severely outnumbered, Geralt. I gave them a nice fire blast and that took care of them quickly. Then I had to drag not only _you_ through my portal but a sobbing bard as well.”

“I was not _sobbing_ ,” Jaskier splutters, turning the color of a tomato. “I just… you know, there was something in my eye. _Eyes_. Something big in _both_ of them.”

Yennefer ignores him, adding, “Had Jaskier not been knocked down that ravine and out of sight, you very well may _both_ be dead. I’d have never known what happened to either of you.”

Her words suddenly trigger something in Geralt’s mind, slowly bringing forth whispers and images that had been shrouded in fog.

_Knocked down the ravine._

_The ravine…_

The memories quickly dance across his mind: holding Jaskier in his arms and watching the life drain from his body, the weird scenario with the lute and doublet, drinking all of the hemlock to put a stop to it all. The memories are rather foggy, shrouded in a cloud-like haze that one gets when thinking back on a dream or nightmare. He remembers how real it all felt at the time, how insane with heartbreak he’d thought he’d become. And now? It all seemed like a story he’d made up, the main idea present but all of the little details lacking.

“It was all a dream,” he murmurs in disbelief, eyes flickering over to Jaskier. He thoroughly looks him up and down, trying to make out any kind of scar, scratch or bite that had not been there before, but he doesn't see any. All he sees is Jaskier’s silky hair glinting in the sunlight, the rosiness of his cheeks, and the fullness of his lips. Geralt wants nothing more than to kiss him silly. Though it’s exhausting, he manages to lift his hand out to the bard, making his intention clear.

Jaskier grins like a schoolgirl at him and obliges, toeing off his boots as he sidles himself up to Geralt on the bed. He snuggles into Geralt's side as Geralt presses firm kisses into the skin of his cheek and neck, breathing in the sweet smell of him.

“Dream?” Yennefer interrupts. “What kind of dreams?”

Jaskier gives him a questioning look as well, blue eyes boring into his soul.

“Well, it was…” His mind flashes back to Jaskier’s blood and organs spilling out of him, to the smell of decay on his breath when he had popped up from his grave, the sheer madness in his eyes and evil laugh when Jaskier had tried pulling him back down with him. Geralt shivers at the memory. “It wasn’t a pleasant one.”

“Ah. That may have been an effect from the induced coma,” Yennefer replies, sending him a brief look of apology. “Magic, no matter what it’s being used for, can have some strange effects on unconscious people. It can range anywhere from nightmares to complete insanity.”

“Or both,” Geralt mutters, pulling Jaskier more firmly against his chest. He snakes a hand up Jaskier’s shirt and traces the bard’s stomach, right where the wound had been. To his relief, he feels nothing but soft, wound-free skin.

“Jaskier, do you mind grabbing the medication?” Yennefer asks. “I want to check his wounds again to make sure they’re healing properly.”

“Right!” Jaskier exclaims, pulling himself free from Geralt’s embrace. Geralt wants nothing more than to pull him back, to hold him in his arms and shield him from any potential dangers nearby. Instead, he takes a deep breath in and out as he watches Jaskier rush out the doorway, reminding himself that this is real and Jaskier _will_ be back in only a moment's time.

“You gave him quite the fright, you know,” Yennefer murmurs, poking and prodding at his bandages. “I’ve never seen him so terrified as he was that night. Thought I was going to have to put _him_ to sleep as well.”

Geralt sighs. “I wish he wouldn’t have had to witness that.” He now understood how terrifying it was to watch someone you love get gutted like a pig.

“If he hadn’t, you’d be _dead_.” Geralt winces, hissing as she tightens the bandages. When she’s finally done fussing, she pulls back and looks at him a serious expression. “He sat right in that chair and talked to you most of the time you were unconscious. Hardly slept a wink the entire time and I just about had to force food down his throat.” Her facial features then morph into something a little softer, a glint of fondness sparkling in her eyes. “I’m glad you’re ok, Geralt. Life would be a complete bore without you and your little songbird.”

“I’m just glad Jaskier wasn’t hurt,” he huffs, allowing Yennefer to help him into a sitting position.

“Ah, here we go!” Jaskier says brightly, stumbling back into the room. “One bottle of, er, well I’m not really sure but I was _told_ it will help you heal faster.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes but smirks, heading toward the door. “Witcher’s may heal fast, but your wounds were deep. That vial there will help speed up the process. Might make you a bit drowsy but you’ll be up and saving the world again in no time.”

“Precisely!” Jaskier makes his way to the bed once more, a green bottle held in his hand. He straddles Geralt’s legs as he sits on the Witcher’s lap, popping the cork off the vial.

“If any funny business goes on, you’re cleaning the sheets,” Yennefer adds, winking at them both before exiting the room, closing the door gently behind her and granting them some privacy.

“Here. Smells putrid and probably tastes the same, but it’ll help you get your strength back,” Jaskier says, waiting patiently as Geralt wraps clumsy fingers around the bottle. He then bites his lip, looking up at Geralt through thick lashes, and gently murmurs, “I thought you were going to die, Geralt.”

_And you_ did _die, little lark,_ Geralt thinks, but doesn’t vocalize it. He doesn’t want to retell the story, doesn’t want to relive all the traumatic details. Though it had been nothing but an awful nightmare, it truly had been his biggest fear. He doesn't want Jaskier to do something as stupid as feel _guilty_ for dying in a dream. He has clearly been through enough the past few weeks.

Instead, he smiles and pulls the bard into another soft kiss, resting their foreheads together. “It’ll take a lot more than a monster to keep me away from you.” He then brings the bottle to his lips and hesitates for a moment. The liquid is quite foul-smelling, like someone had taken rancid swamp water and poured it into the bottle.

His mind immediately flashes back to the dreams, the muscle memory of tipping the hemlock down his throat. He almost decides to push the bottle aside, to claim his Witcher healing will make him better in no time, but he knows he can’t let a handful of bad dreams dictate the choices he makes in waking life. So, Jaskier watching him with a hopeful look, he downs the entire bottle, grimacing at the awful taste. And then, because his mind is still wary, he tenses and waits, waits for the familiar burn of the hemlock to make its way down his throat and into his lungs. But the feeling never comes. The only thing that burns at that moment is Jaskier’s smile, brighter than the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me tell you, writing this was one hell of an emotional roller coaster that I really wasn’t expecting, but I enjoyed the fuck out of it. I only hope you all enjoyed it just as much. Thank you once again for reading <3
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr here: https://hero-complex-girl.tumblr.com/


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